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FALL/WINTER 1992-93 

Volume 12, No. 3, Fall/Winter 1992-93 

'VJoman Governors State University, University Park, IL 60466 


Published under the auspices of the provosts office, 

© 1993 governors state university and helen hughes issn 0736 - 4733 


Helen E. Hughes, Editor 

Suzanne Oliver, Art Director 

Barbara Conant, Library Resources 

Nirmala Grutzius, Business Manager 

Lynne Hostetter, Word Processing 

Linda Kuester, Word Processing 

Priscilla Rockwell, Editorial Consultant 

Emily Wasiolek, Editorial Consultant 

Sally Petrilli, Editorial Consultant 

Kathryn Godfrey, Editorial Assistant & Intern 


Glenda Bailey-Mershon, Illinois NOW '/National Organization for Women, Oak Park, IL 

Donna Bandstra, Healthgroup International, Sherman Oaks, CA 

Margaret Brady, Social Sciences, Homewood, IL 

Rev. Ellen Dohner Livingston, Religion, Unitarian Society of Ponoma Valley, CA 

Rita Durrant, League of American Penwomen, Doylestown, PA 

Deborah Garretson, Counseling, Muncie, IN 

Temmie Gilbert, Theatre/Media, Governors State University 

Linda Grace-Kobas, Journalism, University of Buffalo, NY 

Harriet Gross, Sociology/Women's Studies, Governors State University 

Helene N. Guttman, Biological Sciences, Bethesda, MD 

Bethe Hagens, Anthropology, Governors State University 

Barbara Tenkins, Psychology, Governors State University 

Betye Saar, Fine Arts, Hollywood, CA 

Sara Shumer, Political Theory, Haverford College, PA 

Rev. Lynn Thomas Strauss, Religion, Women's Studies/Parenting, Knoxville, TN 



3 Introduction Helen E. Hughes 

4 Scholarship in a Time of Crisis: Toward 2000 Allegro. Stewart 

11 A Geometric Legend Elizabeth A. Hagens 

16 Unfinished Business Barbara Rodman 

22 The Winter of The Heart Judy Miller 

23 Winslow Junction, Halfway There Mary Ann Mannino 

27 To My Great Aunt Rose Dana Collins 

Jo's Bar Rose Ann Woodson 

28 "The Prairie Series", Drawings of Nature MariKay Peter Witlock 

30 Legacy To My Cousin Mary Joanne Samraney 

31 Mushroom Children Kathleen deAzevedo 

The Silence Whispers Carole Fincher 

32 Ann Brigman Was Not Afraid Janet Cowser 

34 Breakfast At Harry's Cafe & Love, Hester Catherine Hardy 

35 Morning Worship Mary Leen 

Drawing A Child & Drawing A Church Carol Barrett 

36 Metaphysics of Childhood Susan McCarthy McDonald 

37 Book Review, Fiber Arts Design Book Four , Edited by Nancy Orban Reviewed by Karen Page 

38 Book Review, Megatrends For Women by Patricia Aburdene & John Naisbitt 

Reviewed by Kathryn Godfrey 

40 Highlights of Women's Marches Photos by Marylu Raushenbush 

42 A Tribute To Those Who Have Supported The Creative Woman 

45 Editor's Column HEH 

47 Index to Volumes 11 & 12 Kathryn Godfrey 

55 Introduction of New Editor 

The Creative Woman is published three rimes a year by Governors 
State University. We focus on a special topic in each issue, presented 
from a feminist perspective. We celebrate the creative achievements of 
women in many fields and appeal to inquiring minds. We publish 
fiction, poetry, book reviews, articles, photography and original graphics. 

Cover: "Commitment", photograph by Cathy 
Cade, 1989. 


This issue marks the end of the year and is the final 
issue to be published at Governors State Univer- 
sity. That's enough to set an editor musing on the 
ends of things. We are also moving toward the end 
of the century and the end of the millennium in 
only seven more fast-fleeting years, and that fact 
must resonate with everyone, not just an editor. So, 
what we are doing in this transition issue is to take 
a step back in order to leap forward, much as a 
runner steps back to gather strength and momen- 
tum for the sprint. We take a backward look so that 
we may have a clearer sense of where we are 
headed. It is with pride that we offer our readers 
perspectives of past and future that they are un- 
likely to find elsewhere. 

How would you like to have a long and serious 
talk with a scholar, of 
immense erudition 
and passionate 
humane concern, 
about the assess- 
ment of our 
twentieth cen- 
tury, its meaning 
for the present 
and challenge 
for the future? 
And a scholar 
whose memory 
banks span the 
entire century! It's 
a tall order, and we 

have the honor to invite you to partake of 
the memories and insights, the concerns 
and warnings of Dr. Allegra Stewart who 
provides our lead article, "Scholarship in a Time Of 
Crisis: Toward the Year 2000." 

For another searching gaze into the future, we 
follow with Dr. Bethe Hagens' complex and many- 
faceted explication of planetary geometry and its 
philosophical and scientific correlates. This col- 
league makes connections - - between Plato and 
basketballs and the structure of the virus - -between 
Chinese alchemy and the Sioux medicine wheel - - 
between ancient inscriptions and future projec- 
tions. "At the University of Chicago we were taught 
to think," says Bethe," and that's what I'm doing!" 

Marriage does not seem to be getting any simpler, 
according to the short stories in this issue. Barbara 
Rodman poses a situation that reveals the effects of 
bisexuality on a family; Mary Ann Mannino ex- 
poses the fault lines that underlie a marriage that 
seems superficially stable. Will definitions and 
expectations of marriage and family life continue to 
change in the century ahead? 

Janet Cowser, whose haunting nature photographs 
appeared in an earlier issue, went to Washington to 
review the exhibit of women photographers at the 
National Museum of Women in the Arts. Marikay 
Peter Witlock brought in an armload of her prairie 
pencil drawings. Marylu Raushenbush sent us her 
photographic collection of three decades of 
women's marches. Karen Page and Kathyrn 
Godfrey wrote book reviews. We have an unusu- 
ally large collection 
of poets, nine; 
some of their 
poems have 
been waiting 
years to find 
their space in 
these pages. 
Your editor 
attended the 
of Partner- 
ship and 
reports on 
the "new 
discussed there. And 
we take an appreciative retrospective look at the 
talented people who have been producing this 
magazine and supporting it for the past fifteen 

Now, like a mother sending her daughter oii to 
college, this editor waves her off with a smile and 
high hopes. Don't miss TJie Creative Woman in her 
next incarnation! 



Allegra Stewart 

In the rhetoric of the 
declining year, this is the 
"season of mists and 
mellow fruitf ulness," but 
already the boughs are 
beginning to shake 
against the cold. If there 
is a nostalgic note, how- 
ever, it will not be merely 
that, like the advancing 
season, the advancing 
years have cast a haze 
over my early memories, or minimized the actual 
anxiety, the rebellious heart, and the inner turmoil 
of my youth and early maturity. The contrast 
between my childhood before the first World War 
and my years immediately following its end is very 
great indeed. 

Those childhood years now seem to me fantasti- 
cally legendary, for my life was lived on a modest 
street in Indianapolis, very much within my home 
and family — a quiet, leisurely, but never idle life 
full of order and what Gertrude Stein called a daily 
life, lived everyday. Of course there was always 
Sunday school and church. On Friday afternoons 
in the warm months we would gather the flowers 
and drive in the carriage of an aunt to Crown Hill 
to decorate the family graves, my sister and I 
wandering about while our elders tended the 
flower vase and weeded the graves or sat on the 
wrought iron bench in the shade reminiscing. We 
children developed a strong sense of continuity 
with our past, for our parents were full of pioneer 
tales. Grandfather and grandmother Stewart had 
come by covered wagon from Coshocton County, 
Ohio, to settle land in Wabash County before the 
Civil War, and the Meeks, my mother's people, had 
settled in Wayne County about 1806. 

How short the period actually was ! How timeless 
it seems in retrospect! Change came slowly. The 
balloon vendors, the ice cream carts, the ice wag- 
ons, and the newsboys seemed as enduring in the 
landscape as the old yellow streetcars, on which we 
occasionally went for trolley rides on warm sum- 

mer evenings, or the great cottonwood trees that 
line College Avenue. There were catastrophes, like 
the San Francisco earthquake, and wars in far-off 
places. I remember the talk 
about the fall of Port 
Arthur. But every 
day father read 
aloud to the 
family from 
Plutarch and 

Tales. There 
were innova- 
tions, of 

course. Father sold the horses and bought a mar- 
velous new automobile — a doorless, topless, bright 
green marvelous new Overland and mother and 
we girls got automobile bonnets. Once there was a 
scare-story in the local papers about Halley's 
comet, which it was said might engulf the whole 
earth in the lethal gases of its tail, but my elders 
scoffed at the idea. 

The period ended abruptly with Germany's inva- 
sion of Belgium and England's declaration of war 
in August of 1914. An uncle of English extraction 
was caught in Germany at the time and returned 
with a tense story of his experience. I was in high 
school; the biggest scandal was that some of the 
boys had been able to purchase whiskey at 
Crawford's Drug Store. I belonged to the Senate, 
the Therapon Club, the Latin Club, and the Short- 
Story Club. And then suddenly we were in the 

My college days and first years of teaching fell 
within the strenuous period between the end of 
World War I and the Great Depression of 1929. It 
was a time of rapid change in manners and mor- 
als — the period defined as the jazz age and por- 
trayed in Fitzgerald's This Side of Paradise. I do not 
need to read Frederick Lewis Allen's Only Yesterday 
to recall the hedonism and the flouting of conven- 
tions in the 1920's: prohibition and the hip-flask; 
bootleggers, highjackers, and bathtub gin. Women 
had gotten the vote in 1920, and whether or not 
there was a direct connection, they were becoming 
rapidly emancipated. I recall the short skirts, the 
flesh-colored stockings, the bobbed hair, and the 
one-piece bathing suits; cigarette smoking, rouge 
and lipstick, permanent waves, petting parties, 
cheek-to-cheek dancing, and the Charleston — and 

such silly popular songs as "Chili Bean" and "Yes 
Sir, That's My Baby." I heard my first radio broad- 
cast about 1922, 1 think. As everyone knows, it was 
the decade of the rise of the Ku Klux Klan in Indi- 
ana and the Scopes trial in Tennessee; the Ziegfeld 
Follies and Charlie Chaplin; beauty pageants and 
the Florida boom; H.L. Mencken and The American 
Mercury; of the lost generation and the expatriates 
who frequented Gertrude Stein's salon at 27 Rue 
des Fleurus; of Joyce's Ulysses, T.S. Eliot's Waste 
Land, and Freudian psychology. Actually in litera- 
ture, you could almost say it was the decade of the 
psychological novel, but there were also the hard- 
boiled realists and naturalists: Hemingway's The 
Sun Also Rises came out in 1926. And that year I 
very daringly put Dreiser's American Tragedy on the 
outside reading list of second semester American 
literature. I read Spengler. Sun Yat-sen and 
Chiang Kai-shek, Lenin and Stalin were the names 
in the news. So was Albert Einstein. 

The importance of science was tremendous. It 
colored profoundly the thinking and writing of 
young intellectuals, for whom moral relativity, 
religious skepticism, and philosophical nihilism 
went hand-in-hand. Disillusioned, rebellious and 
bored, many of them found their own image in the 
anti-heroes of Aldous Huxley's novels: life was a 
tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signify- 
ing nothing. 

In a little volume of verse called Leda, Huxley 
published his "First Philosopher's Song," which 
epitomizes at least one aspect of the temper of the 
age. Through three stanzas the "philosopher" 
praises the agility of the ape, from which man is a 
"poor degenerate descendant," but boasting that he 
surpasses the "nimbler beast" with his mind — 
"Mind fabulous, mind sublime and free!" Then 
comes the derisive last stanza: 

But oh, the sound of simian mirth! 

Mind, issued from the monkey's womb, 

Is still umbilical to earth, 

Earth its home and earth its tomb. 

There was a crisis in scholarship during this period, 
a crisis which led to the loose association of a group 
of scholars under the banner of the "new human- 
ism." A largely academic movement, the new 
humanism had no "program" beyond its desire to 
stem the tide of revolt and fragmentation of ethical 

and aesthetic values by a reestablishment of the 
traditional humanistic disciplines. Though the 
movement contributed to the improvement of the 
standards of taste, it had little influence outside 
academic circles. It is a chastening experience to 
reread these authors today and see how pale much 
of their work has become. If you are interested you 
might look at Norman Foerster's anthology Human- 
ism and America, 1930. 

As I see it, the present crisis in scholarship has 
much in common with the crisis of seventy years 
ago, just as the forces of unrest in our society today 
have much in common with those operative in the 
1920's and 1960's. 

I am not greatly oversimplifying now, I think, if I 
suggest that the roots of our present crisis — both 
social and intellectual — lie in the destruction by 
science of the image of humankind inherent in the 
Judeo-Christian tradition and the erosion of the 
ideals fostered by humanistic scholarship. This 
process has been going on ever since the Renais- 
sance. I think of John Donne, the great poet and 
divine, who suffered disenchantment in the midst 
of the Copernican revolution. Donne was one of 
those for whom, J.B. Heishman says, "the medieval 
world-order had been shaken and the medieval 
world-picture antiquated, but neither superseded 
nor replaced." Donne, an intellectual and a scholar, 
reveals the bewilderment he experiences at the 
overthrow of the Ptolemaic astronomy in a medita- 
tive poem called "An Anatomy of the World." 

And new Philosophy calls all in doubt, 

The element of fire is quite put out: 

The Sun is lost, and th'earth, and no man's wit 

Can well direct him where to look for it. 

He did not lose his faith in God, but he was skepti- 
cal of the labors of the human mind. Only a year or 
two before William Harvey gave his first lectures 
on the circulation of the blood, Donne chided the 
human soul for pretensions to knowledge of any 

Pour soule, in this thy flesh what doesn't thou 
know? — 

Thou art too narrow, wretch, to comprehend 

Even tin/self; yea though thou wouldst but bend 

To know thy body... 

Know'st thou how blood, which to the heart dost flow, 

Doth from one ventricle to th' other goe? 

Unaware that he stood at the threshold of the great 
century of genius, as Whitehead called the seven- 
teenth century, Donne dwelt upon the vanity of 
human life, man's ignorance of Self and the pro- 
cesses of nature, and man's fallen state, instead of 
dwelling, as Bacon and the experimental scientists 
did, upon the mastery of nature's secrets. It is a 
great temptation here to speak of Marlowe's 
Faustus — who also sought power over nature, but 
thought it meant usurpation of Divine power and 
required dealings with Satanic forces. Yet during 
the century, Galileo, Bacon and Descartes devel- 
oped the scientific method. Galileo, Gassendi, and 
Newton developed mathematical physics. The 
atomic theory of the ancients was revived. Al- 
chemy passed into chemistry, and mechanical 
inventions of all sorts enabled the scientists to 
extend their experiments and verify their specula- 
tions. The medieval world-picture was, indeed, in 
process of being "superseded and replaced" — by 
the theory of mechanism. 

It would be fascinating to trace the complex move- 
ment of thought during the eighteenth and early 
nineteenth centuries, but I must ruthlessly leap to 
the Victorian Age, when the conflict between 
science and religion was intensified by the theory 
of evolution. Many besides Tennyson found it 
difficult to reconcile themselves to a nature "red in 
tooth and claw — so careful of the type.. .so careless 
of the single life." 

No one was more aware than the humanistic 
scholar, poet and critic Matthew Arnold, of the 
function of the scholar in society and of the intensi- 
fying conflict between the findings of science and 
the teaching of religion and the humanistic tradi- 
tion regarding the nature of our species, our ori- 
gins, and our destiny. In his "Scholar-Gipsy" he 
created a symbolic figure that stands outside the 
turmoil and strife of "this strange disease of mod- 
ern life." As one critic has put it, "the scholar-gipsy 
is simultaneously aware of past and present, 
romance and reality, of the holiness of nature and 
the impiety of extreme rationalism." 

In "Literature and Science," Arnold took up the 
cudgels in behalf of a liberal arts education against 
Thomas Henry Huxley, who maintained that 

education should be primarily scientific. Arnold 
thought that the hairy quadruped from which man 
is descended had in him an instinct for humane 
letters and the necessity of Greek. We shall have to 
acquaint ourselves, he thought, with the great 
results reached by modern science and to give 
ourselves as much training in its disciplines as we 
can, but the majority will always require humane 
letters, for science gives us knowledge only — 
knowledge without relation to morals and aesthet- 

At about the same time that Arnold was writing 
this essay on "Literature and Science," a somewhat 
younger man, Henry Adams, an American scholar 
and student of history with a lively interest in 
fossils, visited Wenlock Abbey in Shropshire and 
speculated upon the forces of natural selection 
while contemplating the fossil remains of Pterapsis, 
the ganoid fish, which once flourished in Siluria, 
and which he referred to as "his oldest friend and 
cousin." An exacerbated case of skepticism and 
pessimism, Adams is nevertheless extremely 
interesting because, in his ironic fashion, he 
grasped some of the implications of the advances 
being made in science. It is Adams, I think, who 
most clearly among contemporary scholars foresaw 
and understood the nature of the present — the 
world we are living in, in 1992. 

On the threshold of the century, at the Paris Exposi- 
tion in the Summer of 1900, with the physicist, 
astronomer and inventor Samuel Pierpont Langley 
as guide and interpreter, Adams studied the dis- 
plays in the hall of dynamos, where electrical force 
gradually became for him a "symbol of infinity." 
He regarded it as a "moral force" — a power like the 
Cross. As he contemplated the dynamos, "the 
planet itself seemed less impressive, in its old- 
fashioned, deliberate annual or daily revolution, 
than this huge wheel revolving within arm's length 
at some vertiginous speed." "Before the end," he 
said, "one began to pray to it." He was almost 
equally impressed by the new rays; in fact, they 
terrified him. 

In his moving "Prayer to the Dynamo," he apostro- 
phizes the dynamo as "Mysterious Power," "Gentle 
Friend," "Despotic master," and "Tireless force," 
and cries: 

We know not whether you are kind, 

Or cruel in your fiercer mood; 

But be you Matter, be you Mind, 

We think we know that you are blind, 

And we alone are good... 

What are we then? the lords of space? 

The master-mind whose tasks you do? 

Or are we atoms whirled apace, 

Shaped and controlled by you? 

Adams could not be reconciled to scientific positiv- 
ism and he lived out his years in much the same 
state of mind as Hawthorne's "Young Goodman 
Brown," whose dying hour was gloom. 

A powerful electric charge flashes above the dome of a giant generator 
in an experiment in extra-high- voltage transmission 

It is no understatement to say that a kind of geo- 
metrical progression has overtaken the growth of 
scientific knowledge since the eruption of those 
forces that Adams recognized as totally new. In 
fact, today we talk less about change than about the 
"population explosion," the "knowledge explo- 
sion," and the "social revolution." It is important, 
therefore, to ask: What about the future? 

In order that I might learn something of the knowl- 
edge explosion and its impact upon society, I 
subscribed some years ago to several scientific 
periodicals, among them the Bulletin of the Atomic 
Scientists and Scientific American. Reading the latter 
has made me very much aware of revolutionary 
advances in science and technology such as the 
discovery of the structure of the DNA material and 
the vast enterprise to map the Genome. From the 
Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists I have gained an 
awareness of the new challenges arising every 

day — the pollution of our environ- DNA Mode 

ment, for example , which becomes 
more and more pressing. 

One of the most informative publi- 
cations I have read is the Summer 
1967 issue of Daedalus, entitled 
"Toward the Year 2000." As the title- 
indicates, the purpose of the issue 
was not to construct a Utopia, but to 
suggest the direction of change 
during the next 30-odd years. 
Though unwilling to make specific 
predictions, the contributors — most 
of them social scientists — paint an 
over-all picture that seems to me as 
incommensurate with the world I 
have known as did the dynamo and 
the x-ray to Henry Adams. The future is explored 
under such heads as (1) the effects of the popula- 
tion explosion upon privacy and personal relation- 
ships, (2) the adequacy of our resources and our 
energy sources, (3) the control of natural and 
human environments, and (4) the biological control 
of genetics and personality. There is little in lighter 
vein, though among 100 technical innovations 
foreseen by J. Wiener and Herman Kahn appear 
such possibilities as "nonharmful methods of 
overindulging," and "programmed dreams." 

As one of the old fogies who insist on protesting 
the use of the telephone for advertising, I was 
particularly impressed by the article on "The 
Problems of Privacy in the Year 2000," by Henry 
Kalven, Jr. Kalven foresees a vast improvement in 
the technology of eavesdropping, which has al- 
ready alarmed many of us with its suggestion of 
the fish-bowl life of 1984, where a person may be 
placed under constant surveillance without becom- 
ing aware of it. Kalven anticipates a time when, 
owing to the fantastic recordkeeping possibilities of 
the computer, society will lose what he calls "its 
benign capacity to forget" with "the disturbing 
result that everyone will live burdened by an 
unerasable record of his past and his limitations." 
To make matters worse, there will be a further 
decline in the family, in religion, and in the habit of 
reading — all of which support the values of pri- 
vacy. Perhaps what impressed me most disagree- 
ably about Kalven's forecast is that he has almost 
no counter-measures to offer. Brieflv and rather 
vaguely he suggests that the legal establishment of 
"citadels of privacy," like the voting-booth and the 

confessional, and the development of new institu- 
tions, perhaps like religious retreats, will ensure a 
few private moments in our otherwise unprivate 

Even more disturbing that the invasion of privacy 
are the predictions concerning techniques of envi- 
ronment control as well as those of modifying 
human behavior, such as the use of electrodes in 
the brain, and the administration of drugs. Now, 
with the new discoveries in biology, there is talk of 
"genetic engineering." This brings up the question 
of the rights of the individual, and perhaps even 
more importantly, of who is wise enough to make 
the choices as to the kinds of men and women most 
valuable to society. A strong protest seems needed 
here. For "genetic engineering" would be a control 
of the future by a limited number of people — at 
most the people of a few generations — which 
seems, in my opinion, to be a seizure of power 
more absolute, less justifiable, than that of any 
totalitarian dictator. The deliberate selection and 
breeding of human types that the present or a near- 
future generation deems most desirable — that 
requires a wisdom and selflessness that nothing I 
know of human nature leads me to expect. 

Thoughts on the future of education, educational 
institutions, and youth recur throughout "Toward 
the Year 2000." In "University Cities in the year 
2000," Stephen R. Graubard envisions a new kind 
of university city, in which museums, universities, 
hospitals, laboratories, and industry cooperate in 
ways hitherto undreamed of. In these universities 
both faculty and students will be mobile, migrating 
from campus to campus, and the faculty at least, 
will commute with ease between London, New 
York, and the West Coast, few remaining attached 
for any length of time to a single institution. This 
may be a new kind of "scholar-gipsy" and we may 
soberly question whether there will be any total 
intellectual or spiritual gain commensurate with all 
the bustle. For as Graubard remarks in concluding, 
"this perpetual coming and going will render even 
more difficult than is now the case, the creation of 
environments suited to contemplation and reflec- 

From the foregoing fragmentary sketch of certain 
major intellectual changes in the last three and a 
half centuries, it seems fairly clear that during this 
period, at least, there has been a crisis in society 
and its values, and consequently a crisis in scholar- 

ship itself. But if there is nothing new in the gen- 
eration gap, in the conflict of faiths, in the ancient 
dream of increasing control over Nature (a dream 
always, since the Renaissance, tinged with hubris), 
there is something new about the sheer magnitude 
of the situation we confront today. 

I have already alluded to the population explosion 
and the knowledge explosion. Some of you will 
live to see the day when the population of this 
planet will be seven billion or more. And it has 
been said that the increase in human knowledge 
from 1940 to 1990 surpasses the increase in human 
knowledge between the Middle Ages and 1940. If 
that is so, we may expect the increase in knowledge 
to continue to accelerate at a dizzy rate — since there 
will be a great number of serious students and 
researchers and an increasing development of 
techniques and facilities. But just as the problems 
of society (on a world scale) are rendered vaster, 
more ominous, and more complex by the growth of 
populations, so the very increase of knowledge 
compounds our difficulties. This is true not merely 
because knowledge is transformed so soon into 
technological advances and their frequently de- 
structive aftermath. It is especially true because 
this vast explosion of knowledge is an increase in 
the knowledge of detailed facts in every area — an 
increase which may lead to an expansion of the 
whole human horizon, but which most frequently 
tends toward intense delimitation and specializa- 
tion. At a time when as citizens and decision- 
makers all men and women in a democracy need to 
take a broad, informed and humane view of soci- 
ety, human nature and human possibilities, there is 
a real danger that the intellectual elite — the intellec- 
tual leadership of society — will be composed of 
people with shallow and fragmentary glimpses of 
the whole, who have never learned to ponder and 
reflect upon the great unfathomable questions 
about the nature of humankind, and the meaning 
of our strange destiny. 

It was 180 years ago — in a simpler time of crisis 
than ours — that Ralph Waldo Emerson gave his 
great Harvard lecture on "The American Scholar;" 
yet in spite of changed times and our heavier 
burdens, his essential message seems as loaded 
with life as on the day he delivered it. It is true that 
for Emerson each man has an infinite life and is 
"inspired by the Divine Soul which also inspires all 
men;" and this reading of our ultimate nature and 
destiny is by no means universally accepted in 

1992. But Emerson felt as keenly as we do the 
fragmentation of human beings by way of the 
division of labor and function which is inevitable in 
every society — although he would have recoiled in 
horror, no doubt, from the nightmare increase of 
such divisions in the 20th century. 

Emerson's words suggest the weighty responsibil- 
ity which is laid on the genuine scholar today. 
Insofar as he or she is a teacher, including those 
who will in turn teach in the elementary and 
secondary schools, their function is primarily to 
evoke in their students a sense of what it means to 
be human, what it has meant, what it must con- 
tinue to mean. That one can best communicate this 
vision, no matter what the discipline, by an ardent 
interest in one's own subject and continued re- 
search in it — of this I have no doubt. For among 
other things the human being is homofaber, a 
creator and inventor of things: and is also homo 
curiosus — eagerly and endlessly inquiring into and 
investigating the natural and cultural environment 
and its causes and laws. The teacher of natural 
science is therefore committed, just as much as the 
teacher of social science and psychology, just as 
much as the teacher of history, philosophy, law, 
literature, and the arts, to the task of preserving 
and upholding an honest and whole picture of our 
species as we have always been, including our 
creative power and potentialities. 

This needs to be said today as never before. I have 
no doubt that there is some valid analogy between 
the structure of the brain — perhaps even between 
certain operations and functions of the mind — and 
the computer, just as I do not doubt that the heart is 
a pump. I do not even doubt that if programmed 
with a wealth of accurate data and presented with a 
clear-cut problem, the computer can give us a valid 
and workable answer (can, in fact, make a purely 
rational decision) with vastly greater speed and 
efficiency than any human being is capable of. 
Well and good. Let the computers solve such 
problems. It is we who will continue to formulate 
new problems — for it is we who have imagination, 
who can see the shadow cast by the future even 
before the problem becomes clear. 

If the function of the scholar, as teacher, is to evoke 
in students an image of humankind that is true to 
the incredible facts, it is surely an equally vital 
function to clarify and reshape that very image. Is 
not every new fact added to our mighty store of 

knowledge interesting ultimately for this one 
reason? Geology, the stars, the teeming forms of 
life on earth, archaeology, history, psychology, 
philosophy, and the arts — all contribute to our 
knowledge and knowledge of that environment 
toward which, in its beauty and inexhaustible 
mystery, we should learn to feel what Santayana 
called natural piety. 

The scholar who sees his or her own discipline set 
in this great context — who remembers that the 
great humanistic tradition is anti-authoritarian, and 
who is aware that this tradition lies at the base of 
our culture today and that the scientific revolution 
arose from the same impulse fostered by the great 
humanistic scholars of the Renaissance — is the 
scholar whom the present crisis calls for. This 
scholar cannot be formed by too early specializa- 
tion; yet cannot be formed at all at the smorgasbord 
of scattered courses offered in many institutions of 
higher learning. Therefore undergraduate colleges 
and universities — large and small — have an oppor- 
tunity and a responsibility for providing a core 
curriculum that is broad yet deep: broad enough to 
awaken and illumine a vision of human nature, 
history, and predicament in the universe; deep 
enough to challenge and nourish the student as 
potential scholar. Such a curriculum must also be 
rich in its treasure of the great tradition, but vital in 
its hospitality toward what is creatively new — even 

For this is, as everybody says, perhaps too glibly, 
an age of Revolution. In closing, then, I would use 
Emerson's words once more; they are truer today 
than in 1838: 

"If there is any period one would desire to be born 
in, is it not the age of Revolution; when the old and 
the new stand side by side and admit of being 
compared; when the energies of all men arc 
searched by fear and b\/ hope; when the historic 
glories of the old can be compensated by the rich 
possibilities of the new era? 

This time, like all times, is a very good one, if we 
but know what to do with it. " 

Dr. Stewart, for many years Professor of English at Butler 
University and Gertrude Stein scholar, is one of our regular 
contributors. Born in 1899, she intends to live to 2001 so that 
she will have lived in three centuries. Her most recent work is 
a biography of the Indiana novelist Nicholson, which she 
composed on her personal computer. This article is adapted 
fron an address given to Phi Kappa Phi and published in their 
Journal, Vol. XLIX, No. 3. 



Elizabeth A. Hagens 

There is a secret stone, hidden in a deep well, 

worthless and rejected, concealed in dung or filth. 

It is a thing which is found everywhere, 

which is a stone and no stone, contemptible and 

hidden, concealed, and yet known to everyone. 

So many metaphors are encapsulated in legends of 
this secret alchemical stone, the Philosopher's 
Stone, that it is almost impossible to know where to 
begin. Buried within the self, within the everyday 
world, within life itself, is a common essence — a 
shape, a creative vessel in which the elements of 
creation are mixed and transformed. This "stone 
which is no stone" is intangible — a metaphor as 
deep as Breath, as profound as Love, and as intelli- 
gent as Light. It is an ideal form, one that can be 
grasped by the intellect but never actually seen. 
Eternal and unchanging, it is the sacred container 
of ever-changing cosmic processes — the Rock of 
Ages. It is an image that sheds light on form, gives 
the illusion of predictability or "memory" to events 
that might otherwise seem random. 

(Left) Plato's Spherical Cosmic Container (Right) A Virus 

Plato used a kind of Philosopher's Stone to orga- 
nize his teachings about the origins of life. He 
called it the ideal body of the cosmos, a perfect 
composite sphere of 120 rounded triangles that 
"contained" five dynamic creative elements: Fire, 
Earth, Air, Water and Aether (Life Energy.) 1 Great 
spiritual leaders among the Indian tribes of North 

America had remarkably similar visions. The Sioux 
universe, for example, was also spherical and 
contained the same five creative elements. In the 
Beginning, they said, the universe was composed 
of numberless hoops, each a kind of skeleton with 
no substance. All was orbits within orbits within 
orbits. Primordial Earth was made up of sixteen 
sacred hoops, to which the Creator called the 
various powers and manifestations of material 
reality. Fifteen of these hoops interlocked to create 
a sphere of 120 triangles identical to Plato's. The 
sixteenth was Earth's orbit around the sun — the 

Most, if not all, of the world's cosmologies accord 
to the same five dynamic elements primary roles in 
the transformation of the material cosmos — the 
environment. "Fire" is an initiatory energy, "Earth" 
a principle of materialization, "Air" a cosmic cycle 
of breath, "Water" a purification, and "Aether" a 
refinement. In the Platonic cosmos, each element 
was symbolized by one of five perfectly symmetri- 
cal geometric shapes (the so-called Platonic solids). 
These same shapes were well-known and modelled 
by many earlier cultures, though geometry (the 
art/science of Earth measuring) is usually attrib- 
uted to the Greeks. 

Figure 2. 

The Order and Shapes of the Elements {from left): Tetrahedron (Fire): 
Cube (Earth); Octahedron (Air); Icosahedron (Water); and 
Dodecahedron (Aether or Life Energy) 

These perfect geometric shapes are all "contained" 
in the Platonic Philosopher's Stone. Each one can be 
enclosed by the 15-hoop, 120-triangle sphere in 
such a way that its corners fall only on corners of 
the triangles. In this way, the Stone organizes; it is 
hidden, found everywhere. It is the masterplan of 
natural structure. 

The perfect shapes can be seen at virtually every 
scale imaginable, from galactic walls to crystals, 
pollen grains and plankton. The microscopic 
protein shell of many common viruses is actually a 
structural nesting of two of the shapes — the icosa- 
hedron (Water) and the dodecahedron (Life En- 
ergy). It can be thought of as the crystalline materi- 
alization of the perfectly spherical Philosopher's 

Stone. Even Plato's elemental symbolism applies to 
the virus. Viruses are now being identified as 
primary agents of the evolutionary process (Life 
Energy) that can proceed only within the fluids of a 
host cell (Water); and viruses are the most prolific 
lifeform on Earth. The words virus and environ- 
ment stem from an identical linguistic root. 

Plato arranged the elements in order of increasing 
geometric complexity, from the most basic (the 
tetrahedron) to the most complex and difficult to 
construct (the dodecahedron). Scientists today use 
an identical geometric hierarchy to explain prin- 
ciples of molecular and cellular growth and bond- 
ing. The most basic molecule, for example, is 
modeled as if it consisted of four atoms (energy 
bundles) spaced equidistantly from each other at 
the corners of a tetrahedron (Plato's first element, 
Fire). The same model is used to describe the 
miraculous growth of a fertilized egg cell. The 
initial division of the egg into interconnected 
halves of a sphere is followed immediately by a 
second division that creates a blastomere, a tetrahe- 
dral cluster of four cells. 

The Periodic Table of the Elements is organized 
around these same five geometric shapes. Elements 
with the same molecular base shape (gold, copper 
and silver are all cubic, for example) have many 
broadly analogous physical properties. Chemical 
bonding of molecules with different base shapes is 
possible because of their unique structural 
transformability and ability to "link" at various 
corners of the 120-triangle perfect cosmic container, 
the phantom-like spherical Philosopher's Stone. 

At a macroscopic level, Earth itself is now being 
modeled as a kind of galactic-scale molecule, a 
composite body gravitationally bonded or "fused" 
together out of numerous "planetesimals" that once 
orbited the sun. Scientists believe that the intense 
heat of this primal fusion (plasma or Fire) drove the 
lighter elements (solids or Earth) upwards to form 
the crust of the planet. Over time, gases (Air) and 
liquids (Water) bubbled up through cracks in the 
crust. These were the preconditions of biological 
transformation and evolution (Life). The order of 
elemental transformation is identical to Plato's. 

The ancient Chinese cosmos of Fire, Earth, Metal/ 
Air, Water and Wood was diagrammed as a pen- 
tagonal Chart of Elements. Each dynamic element 
in this system was the equivalent of a color, a 
function of an organ in the human body, and a 


position (rather than a shape) in the universal 
scheme of creation and destruction. The Creative 
Order (symbolized by the pentagon) led to increas- 
ing material complexity. The Destructive Order 
(symbolized by the pentangle) led to progressively 
more subtle states of matter. No direct evidence 
survives to indicate whether or not ancient Chinese 
philosophers also used geometric shapes to repre- 
sent the five elements in the Chart, but it seems 
almost certain that they did. The most ancient 
Chinese wisdom is now long lost to book burnings. 
In any case, Plato also attached colors to his 
shapes — and Greek and Chinese color symbolism is 

In the Americas, cosmic diagrams were often laid 
out as medicine wheels — large circles of sacred 
stones that represented the transformative, healing 
powers of the elements and their geographical 
orientation in the universal scheme of creation. 
Like Stonehenge and other ancient megalithic 
astronomical observatories, these much smaller 
scale stone constructions functioned as calendar 
clocks. Every medicine wheel was intentionally 
designed to honor and to maintain the regenerative 
energies of a position in the cosmos unique in time, 
space, and transformative significance. Each was 
built "in harmony" with the sacred, hidden, ideal 
order. In addition, the stones were road signs that 
could be "read" by the rising and setting positions 
of the sun, moon, planets, and stars as they tra- 
versed their hoop-like paths around the Earth. 

Position in time and space, in the context of endless 
cyclic flux, seems to have far outweighed any 
importance that might have been attached by 
American Indian cultures to the "order" of the 
elements. The medicine wheel merged element, 
season, direction, color, and life form. 2 It served as 
a plan for ceremonial lodges and a compositional 
framework for sacred art. It was a totality, an ideal 
of life fully and properly lived. The responsibility 
and privilege of being human was, over the course 
of a hTetime, to embrace and know each of its 
elements, thereby "closing the hoop" and complet- 
ing an individual sacred circle. The Sioux holy man 
and visionary Black Elk used colors identical to 
those of the Chinese and Greeks to symbolize these 

According to legend, the Philosopher's Stone is 
"concealed in dung," and this aspect of its myster- 
ies is most clearly illuminated in ancient Afro- 

Egyptian cosmology. Their Stone is the image of a 
dungball rolled across the heavens each day by the 
sacred scarab, scarabaeus sacer, a winged beetle. The 
scarab symbolized a universal power of self- 
regeneration. It drove the Sun along its path. Earth 
contained and transformed this power. 

Figure 3. 


■,■„,., /..., / (Red) 

Sacred Hoop of the Sioux 

It is very difficult to estimate just how far back in 
time scarab symbology really extends. A number of 
carved artifacts from Paleolithic Europe that have 
been identified as regenerative goddess figures are 
also extremely accurate models of beetles emerging 
from pupae. In fact, the fit between ancient 
cosmologies and contemporary biology is so 
remarkable on many fronts that the figure almost 
certainly holds a partnership between these two 
currently unrelated academic fields. 

The scarab was the emblem of a culture that placed 
great value upon the life-sustaining transformative 
process and products of bodies. The postures and 
proportions of the bodies of animals, plants and 
humans are uniquely transformable, one into the 
other. In a very real sense, bodies were temples — 
compatible shapes "cut out" or "faceted" in time. 
Egyptian artwork built upon similarities of posture 
and proportion to combine human, animal, min- 
eral, vegetable and celestial shapes in much the 
same way that chemists today diagram molecular 
connections. Species were merged, one into an- 
other, along regular geometric pathways — the 
angles of elbow, ankle, knee, or joint; the tilt of a 
head on a stem or spinal column. 

Equally respected were the residues of all these 
bodies. Human byproducts (especially feces, 

spittle, and phlegm) were the foods and creative 
substances of the gods. The mythology of Gaia, the 
Greek Goddess of Earth whose name is now used 
to label the scientific hypothesis about the unitary 
nature of Earth as a sun-powered living system, is 
probably a derivative of this tradition. In many 
cultures, the sounds ga-ya or ge meant "Earth" and 
implied a divine transformative capacity. In Egypt, 
this power was Geb, the divine nature of Earth. In 
Semitic (the language family of Arabs and Jews), it 
was galel and gelel — both of which meant "to roll 
dungballs." The terrible Wheel rolling in the air in 
the Old Testament Book of Ezekial is composed of 
wheels that "turned not." In the original Hebrew 
text, the wheels were "golden rims"; the Wheel 
itself was a rolling dungball — a living solar system. 

Clearly, it takes some rethinking to imagine Gaia or 
our Solar System as a dungball, and yet this is the 
essence of the most ancient wisdom. Earth and Sun 
are uniquely compatible spherical partners that 
contain and shape the life of the cosmos. There is 
much more than poetic beauty in this cosmology of 
Earth. It metaphorically encapsulates the bio-geo- 
chemical processes of Fire, Earth, Air, Water, and 
Life that maintain planetary ecological balance 
(oxidation, reduction, gasification, liquefaction, 
evaporation, distillation, bacterial bloom, viral 

Since at least the time of the ancient Egyptians, 
however, the Western conception of the cosmos has 
become increasingly antiseptic. Plato was educated 
in Egyptian traditions, yet his perfect cosmic body 
was much more austere: "Neither was the rounded 
spherical shape in need of any organ by which to 
take food into itself and discharge it later after 
digestion. ..for it was designed to supply its own 
nourishment from its own decay." He imagined 
Earth as a game ball, a spherical dodecahedron — a 
soccerball. "Earth looks from above, if you could 
see it," Plato once wrote, "like one of those twelve- 
patch leather balls." 

Figure 4 


(Left) Plato's Earth (Right) The 15-Hoop, 120-Tnangle Earth Map 
with Orienting Ring 


Within the last twenty years, close on the heels of 
our first view of Earth from space, Plato's model 
has again been embraced as a research tool by 
small circles of scientists and seekers in countries 
all over the world. The 120-triangle, 15-hoop sphere 
is being visualized as a Map — a contemporary 
cosmic design that can be used to bring harmony 
and order to global patterns of clouds, ocean 
currents, mountain ranges, river systems, coast- 
lines, and other terrestrial energy formations. These 
exercises in geometric geography have led to 
another discovery, vast in its implications. The very 
same cosmic design "links" sites of human activity 
recognized today as having had overarching 
importance in the ancient world — Egypt's pyra- 
mids, Easter Island, Mohenjo Daro, Macchu Picchu, 
the Southwest United States "Four Corners" region, 
mythic Shambhala, the Upper Amazon Basin, 
Angkor, Chichen Itza, Persepolis, Great Zimbabwe, 
Benin, and Timbuktu among many others. So many 
sites fall on or very near the intersections of the 
Map that it appears not only possible, but even 
probable, that an ancient global culture actually 
used the Map as a planning tool — perhaps even as 
a system of coordinates, not unlike latitude and 

Seen from the perspective of this Map/ 
Philosopher's Stone, Earth appears to have a 
natural cleavage — a primary division not unlike the 
fertilized egg, the brain, or the countless other 
dihedrals in nature. This mystical division of 
hemispheres can be thought of as the orienting 
ring. As seen from the AfroEurAsian hemisphere, it 
marks a conventional dividing line between East 
and West identified by the historian C. Northcote 
Parkinson. More than 125 years ago, Charles Piazzi 
Smyth (Astronomer Royal of Scotland) established 
that it passed over more of Earth's land surface 
than any other line of longitude that could be 
drawn. Perhaps more significant are the "corners" 
of the Stone that fall along this ring. Corner #1 is a 
global focal point that dramatically illustrates how 
the crystalline shape seems to "tune" human 
consciousness. It is a highly-charged symbol of the 
power of the pharaohs, the rise and fall of civiliza- 
tions, the ancient and continuing conflict between 
Arabs and Jews, the triumphs of technology, the 
tragedies of human stupidity and greed, the wealth 
of the Nile, and the mysteries of life and death. It 
engages the entire spectrum of human moods and 
capacities in ways that are passionately logical and 

emotional at the same time. In ancient times, the 
corner marked Behdet — a geodetic point in a 
spherical world mapping system that has been 
described in great detail by the prominent historian 
of measurement, Livio Catullo Stecchini. Jerusalem, 
Alexandria (seat of the great library), and the Great 
Pyramid complex at Gaza are nearby. 

Kiev (corner #2), the most beloved of all (formerly 
western Soviet) cities, is an ancient pilgrimage site 
that also marks the site of the most disastrous 
nuclear accident in world history, Chernobyl. 
Corner #21, near Khartoum, lies at the heart of the 
ancient kingdom of Kush. It is currently the center 
of a devastating locust plague, one the United 
Nations believes will exceed any in recorded 
history. To the south, near Corner #41, is Great 
Zimbabwe, the most impressive megalithic struc- 
ture in all Africa. The corner seems always to have 
symbolized the divergence of biological types and 
the hope of peace. In the early 1900s, Raymond 
Dart made his landmark discoveries of hominid 
fossils here. The struggle against apartheid is, 
perhaps, its legacy. Corner #51 marks a natural 
whale refuge. Corners #61 and #62, the axial poles 
of Earth, symbolize orientation in space with 
respect to the sun. The concept of an "ozone hole" 
was first applied to the sky over the south pole. 
Finally, Corner #7 (not shown) falls at the site of 
the Valdez-Exxon oil spill. 

Contemporary research based on the Map has been 
uniquely cross-disciplinary and cross-cultural 
because the research design, the Map itself, is an 
inherently sacred symbol — a Philosopher's Stone. 
Its meanings and implications are buried deep 
within every culture's mythology, religion, and 
science. The real enthusiasm is not so much over 
what the Map is, what is precisely "on" or "off" the 
rings and corners, as where it may lead. Potentially, 
it is a base from which an equitable global conver- 
sation about the future can grow — a context within 
which different historical understandings and 
beliefs about the nature of the environment can 
enhance, rather than compete with, one another. 
We may never know how, or even if, the Map was 
actually used in the past. (Maps such as the Piri 
Reis chart of the Atlantic and the 14th century 
diCanestris "diamond" map of the Mediterranean 
suggest its use in ancient cartography.) We can, 
however, make the operating research assumption 
that humans share a basic, highly sophisticated 

geometric intelligence that has taken them in 
different directions — all metaphorically compatible. 

This brings me to the very difficult questions I've 
been asked to address. Have there been develop- 
mental phases in the relationship between humans 
and planet? Was there a more perfect harmony 
prior to industrialization of human society? And 
most importantly, why did we renounce Paradise? 

Part of the ecstasy and terror of being human is that 
we are capable of even asking such questions. It 
seems obvious that over time, every people in 
every part of the world have established different 
ways of knowing nature. I am not convinced, 
however, that the harmonies of these ways of 
knowing can be placed on a hierarchical scale. 
Harmony exists in the soul of the one who listens. 

How can we begin to separate excessive human 
greed, pride, individualism, and stupidity from our 
collective material memory — the "Paradise of 
Precession" that has spiralled through the eons as a 
progressive harmony in our brains? This is the 
ground upon which science and religion meet, the 
ultimate mystery, the "ancient future." What if a 
perfect geometric Map does somehow contain this 
life of the universe and the processes of physical 
and cultural evolution? What does this mean? 
Where can such a theory lead? Can cycles of con- 
sciousness be anticipated? Can we regain an ability 
to think and plan in terms of hundreds and thou- 
sands of years' impact? I believe that we must, at 
the very least, begin to seriously ask these ques- 

What does this imply for our future? What if, in the 
beginning, geometry were an original blessing of 
the Creator, a natural system of knowledge that all 
humans, at all times, could (did, and do) use to 
chart the course of Earth life on its journey around 
the edge of the great shining Sea we know today as 
the disk of the Milky Way galaxy. If we just imag- 
ine this to be so, the entire world of time is no 
longer chaotic. It is transformed into a sacred 
laboratory with semi-predictable boundary condi- 
tions. Today its legacy lies unrecognized in muse- 
ums, sacred texts and temples, archaeological sites, 
and even in the truths we hold to be self evident. 
This stockpile of global creativity and diversity is 
the ancient future that the Philosopher's Stone/ 
Map can illuminate and integrate for the humans 
who survive the Day. 

Dr. Hagens, professor of anthropology at Governors State 
University, has been a frequent contributor, and a Guest Editor 
("Energy in Living Systems") of The Creative Woman. This 
article is a part of her book-in-process, The Search for Ancient 


1 This geometry is discussed in detail in Plato's Timaeus and 

2 This diagram of the sacred hoop is a stylized medicine wheel 
or "crossed circle" adapted from Ed McGaa's Mother Earth 


3 These numbers are those used internationally by researchers. 
The convention was established by researchers in Russia in 
1971, and was introduced in the United States in May 1975 by 
Christopher Bird in an article in Nezv Age Journal entitled "The 
Planetary Grid." The concept of the orienting ring was 
developed by Bethe Hagens and William Becker in 1983. 




Barbara Rodman 

Sharon missed Ollie the most late in the afternoon, 
at the end of the day. He had always been home 
earlier than she, and it had been a pleasant, com- 
fortable time of day. Dinner had usually been 
started by the time she arrived, and the kids, 
Kristin and Hope and Jarad, were helping with 
chores or upstairs working on their homework. 

Now the kids stayed next door at the Simons' until 
Sharon got home, and were as tired and irritable as 
she when they straggled into the house. 

"You said you were coming home early," Hope 
said. "You said I could get new tennis shoes. Look 
at these. They have holes in the toes." 

"I'm sorry," Sharon said. "I couldn't leave early 
after all." 

"I think Jarad is getting sick, Mom," Kristin said. 
"He just moped around all afternoon and he 
wouldn't even eat anything." 

"Does he have a fever?" She put her hand on his 
forehead. "Do you feel sick?" she asked him. 

Jarad shrugged, as if it didn't make much differ- 
ence to him. He was a solemn, genial child, seldom 
quarreling with the girls or making demands. Like 
Ollie. Would he grow up like Ollie? Sharon peered 
into his eyes, looking for a clue. 

"Well, go watch T.V. until dinner is ready," she 
told him. "Hope, you can set the table, and, 
Kristin — where has she gone off to? Kristin?" 

"I have my science project to finish by tomorrow. I 
couldn't work on it at Mrs. Simons', could I?" 
Kristin stood in the doorway, looking more tired 
than angry. 

"I'm sorry," Sharon said. Her conversations with 
the children seemed sprinkled with "I'm sorry's" 
since Ollie had moved out. 

"I don't see why we have to go there in the after- 
noons, anyway," Hope said, slamming silverware 
onto the table. "I think we're old enough to come 
home by ourselves." 


"You and Kristin, maybe," Sharon said. "But Jarad 
needs someone to watch him. He's only five years 

"Well then, he can stay with Mrs. Simon, but let 
Kris and me come home." Hope left the plates and 
glasses in a random, scattered arrangement on the 
table, as if she'd thrown them at it from a distance. 

"Oh, Mom, that would be perfect. We could do 
things around the house, too," Kris said, gesturing 
vaguely. "Run the dishwasher and put things 

Sharon tried to imagine eight-year-old Hope and 
ten-year-old Kristin cleaning the kitchen without 
supervision. "We'll see," she said. 

After dinner, Jarad called Ollie to say good-night. 
The farmhouse he had moved into on the south 
edge of town was still within the local calling area; 
Jarad could dial the number himself and talk as 
long as he wanted. 

"Let me talk to Daddy, too," Sharon told Jarad. She 
took the phone and sent the boy to get ready for 

"You sound exhausted," Ollie said. 

"I am exhausted," she said. "And I think Jarad's 
coming down with something." Actually, he'd 
perked up after dinner. Perhaps he'd only been 
tired, hadn't eaten enough lunch. 

"Would you like me to take them this weekend?" 
Ollie asked. 

"I thought Cliffie was going away next week," 
Sharon said. There was a moment's silence on the 

"Cliff will be here this weekend," Ollie said. "But 
there's really no reason the kids can't come out 
when he's here, though. You're not going to fight 
about this forever, are you?" His voice was reason- 
able, patient. As usual. 

Sharon gritted her teeth. "I don't think it's good for 
them," she said. "What do you think they would 
tell their friends?" She looked around quickly to 
make sure none of them were in earshot. "'We 
stayed with my dad and his boyfriend this week- 

"You don't have to tell them that," Ollie said. "Just 
tell them he's my roommate — that's all they need to 
know. He has his own room, after all." He paused, 
and she wondered if he were checking to make 
sure Cliff was out of earshot. "Besides, would you 
feel this way if I were living with a woman?" 

"That's different," she said. 

Ollie sighed. "I wish you'd at least meet Cliff. 
You'd like him. I know the kids will, too." 

"Don't push me, Ollie, not today. I'm too tired for 
this." She brushed her bangs out of her eyes. "What 
I wanted to talk to you about was the girls. They 
want to come home after school; they think they're 
too old to stay at Mary Kay's." 

"She is right next door, if they have a problem," he 
said. "How do you feel about it?" 

"I don't know," she said. "They really aren't old 
enough — legally, I mean — to leave alone. But it 
might be easier on them. And they could do things 
to get ready for supper, too, I suppose." 

"Kristin is almost eleven," Ollie said. 

Sharon felt like crying. She didn't want to be 
discussing the girls in this distanced, objective sort 
of way; she wanted to cry, irrationally and passion- 
ately, and have someone else soothe her. She 
wanted someone else to be home with her at the 
end of the day, not just the kids, an adult. She 
wanted Ollie. 

"Can't you come over for awhile?" she said. "Just 
for a drink? There's still a little Scotch left in the 
bottle." The bottle had been in the house for at least 
a year, left over from a party before Ollie had 
moved out. It was just an excuse, though; Sharon 
didn't want a drink, she wanted company. 

"I can't make it tonight," Ollie said, in the same 
patient voice, Sharon suspected, that he would 
have used with one of his students. "I'll stop by 
tomorrow and talk to the girls. Would that help? 
I'll check on them on my way home." 

Ollie taught chemistry and math at the State Uni- 
versity. Most of the time, his classes were in the 
morning and he went home — or, no, not home 
anymore — he went back to that house he shared 
with Clifford — early in the afternoon. Clifford was 
an accountant for a big firm; he'd never been 
married. Didn't people wonder about him? Sharon 
thought. Forty-four years old and he'd never been 

married. At least, most people didn't think any- 
thing about Ollie — he'd been married for thirteen 
years, had three children. 

"All right," Sharon said. "I'll tell the girls they can 
come home tomorrow after school and you'll stop 
in to check on them." She wanted to add, "Wait for 
me to get home; I want to see you, too," but she 

"Fix yourself a drink and put your feet up for 
awhile," Ollie advised her. "You need a break. I'll 
bet you haven't sat down for five minutes all day." 

He was right. There had been crises and problems 
all day long. Still, Ollie's suggestion annoyed her. 
He'd been teaching the same classes for fifteen 
years; he must know them by heart. She could 
picture him in the farmhouse in the morning, 
making coffee in the aluminum percolator she'd 
given him for Father's Day one year, listening to 
The Morning Edition on National Public Radio. At 
eight, he'd pick up his briefcase, left tidily packed 
the night before, and put on his coat and the little 
plaid wool cap he'd had for years, and walk, quite 
unhurriedly, to the car. He never hurried any- 
where, even when he was late. 

The little wool cap was on the table in the hall 
when Sharon came in the next afternoon, and her 
shoulders lifted. 

"Daddy's teaching us to cook," Hope said when 
Sharon came into the kitchen. 

"Spaghetti sauce," Ollie said. 

"Are you staying for dinner?" Sharon asked. She 
took out two glasses and poured a generous 
amount of Scotch into each. 

"No, I can't stay," Ollie said apologetically. "I just 
thought it would be a special treat for you to have 
dinner ready when you got home." He took the 
glass of Scotch, though, and sipped at it. 

"Kristin, go next door and get Jarad," Sharon said. 
"I'm sure Daddy wants to see him before he 

Ollie didn't say anything and Sharon sat down on 
one chair, propping her feet on another. As she sat, 
she heard a car drive up and a door open and slam 

"Who could that be?" she asked. 


"Don't get up — it's Cliff. My... my roommate," Ollie 

"What is he doing here?" Sharon asked, setting the 
glass back on the table with caution. They were 
fragile glasses, a wedding present; there were only 
three remaining from what had once been a set of 
eight. Then she lowered her feet to the floor and 
straightened herself in the chair. 

"My car is in the shop," Ollie said, meeting 
Sharon's gaze for a moment before looking away. 
"He's picking me up here." 

Clifford got to the door just as Kristin and Jarad 
came in. Ollie went to meet them. 

"This is my family," he said to Cliff. "Sharon, 
Kristin, Hope, and Jarad. Kids — this is my room- 
mate, the man who shares the house." 

"How come you're always gone when we're 
there?" Jarad said. "Don't you like kids?" 

Cliff laughed. He was a short, dark-skinned man, 
slender and muscular. Sharon remembered that 
Ollie'd said he competed in marathons. She much 
preferred men like Ollie, a little paunchy, balding, 
but easy-going. 

"I like kids," Cliff said. "I just have to go out of 
town a lot. And besides, don't you like seeing your 
dad by himself?" 

"You don't have to leave when we come," Kristin 
said. "We see our dad all the time." 

"Will you be there this weekend?" Hope asked. 

"You're not going to Daddy's this weekend," 
Sharon said. She took a big drink from the Scotch, 
swallowing and licking her lips before she finished 
speaking. "Next weekend is your weekend." She 
refused to look up at either Ollie or Cliff while she 

"Oh, Mom," Hope said. "Why can't we? You have 
to work on Saturday anyway. What difference does 
it make? I'd rather go to Daddy's than Aunt 

"Me too," Kristin said. "We haven't been to 
Daddy's in a month." 

Sharon took another drink. 

"It would be good for you, Sharon," Ollie urged. 
"You're tired. You need a break." 


"No," she said. 

Cliff stood with his back to the room, apparently 
studying the yard, while they talked. 

"I'd bring them home after dinner," Ollie said. 
"They don't have to stay all night. You can have 
them the rest of the weekend." 

"Can we eat pizza at the Pizza Palace?" Jarad 

"We'll see," Ollie said. 

"Oh, Mom, please?" Kristin said. "It's so boring at 
Aunt Gatti's." 

Sharon was embarrassed for Clifford to hear the 
family discussion; his back expressed an unstated 
vulnerability. "I'll think about it," Sharon said. "We 
can call Daddy later and let him know." 

Clifford turned back to the room then, and Sharon 
noticed that his eyes had dark circles under them. 
He didn't look at her at all, just at Ollie. 

"Ready to go, Oliver?" he asked. 

Only people who don't know him well call him 
'Oliver', Sharon thought. 

The kids each gave Ollie a hug before he left. Hope 
clung to him for a minute, pressing her lips against 
his cheek. "Will you take me to look for new tennis 
shoes on Saturday, Daddy?" she asked. 

"I'll take you to get shoes," Sharon said. "Tomor- 

"That's what you always say," Hope answered. 

Ollie frowned, shaking his head. "Your mom's very 
busy, Hope. She'll take you as soon as she can." 

"If you ride the bus to the mall tomorrow," Sharon 
said, "we can go get your shoes and you can drive 
home with me." 

"By myself on the bus?" Hope said. 

"With Kris," Sharon said. "Do you know where to 
catch the bus?" 

Ollie left with Cliff while Sharon was drawing a 
map to show the girls where to catch the bus. Only 
Jarad, standing in the doorway with a resigned 
expression, seemed to notice when the two men 
drove away. 

"Jarad, can you stir the spaghetti sauce?" Sharon 
said to distract him. 

"I'll get it," Kris said. "I made it myself — Daddy 
just told me what to do." 

After they'd eaten, Sharon loaded the dishwasher 
while Kris did her homework at the kitchen table. 
The table had belonged to Ollie's aunt, whom he'd 
lived with after his parents had gone to Africa to 
teach. His father had died while they were away, 
and his mother had remained alone at the African 
University for several more years, wanting to finish 
whatever it was they felt they'd started. Even when 
she'd come back to the States, she'd never returned 
to the Midwest. Ollie said Aunt Gatti was his real 
mother, and when she'd moved out of the big 
house on Oak Street, she'd given most of her 
furniture to Ollie and Sharon. 

Was it because he'd grown up with an old spinster? 
Sharon wondered. Aunt Gatti wasn't what you'd 
call a man-hater, but as far as Sharon knew, she'd 
never had a real boyfriend either, and she'd been a 
widow since 1943. Her husband had been a fire- 
man; he'd been killed fighting an industrial fire 
when they'd only been married a few months. 

And what about me? Sharon asked. Is it any differ- 
ent because I was married for thirteen years? It's 
just like I was never married, either, except for the 

"I don't understand this problem, Mom," Kris said. 
"I hate story problems — can you explain it?" 

Sharon bent over the math book, her arm along the 
back of the chair, her face close to Kris'. "Let's 
see... the train is moving how fast? And the two 
towns are fifty miles apart. Now, think, Kris..." 

For some reason, Kris had inherited neither her 
father's love of math and abstract science, nor her 
mother's more practical interest in numbers. Kris 
loved to read, to write poems, to play the piano. 

Tiredly, Sharon guided the girl through the prob- 
lem. "See, you've done it! That's the right answer. 
Now can you do the next one alone?" She finished 
drinking the Scotch she'd poured for Ollie earlier. 
He'd left it sitting on the counter. 

"Mom — why don't you like Daddy's friend?" Kris 

"What? Who?" 

"Clifford. The guy who lives in the farmhouse with 
Dad. Why don't you like him?" Kris seemed wor- 
ried, her forehead wrinkled. She looked tired, too. 

Maybe it wasn't such a good idea for the girls to try 
and start supper in the afternoon. Kris wasn't even 
eleven yet, after all. 

"What makes you think I don't like him?" Sharon 
asked. "I hardly know him. I only met him tonight, 
just like you." 

"You won't let us go to Daddy's when he's there," 
Kris said. 

"Daddy and I both agreed it would be better for 
you to see him when he's alone," Sharon said. 
"Besides, I said I would think about this weekend, 
didn't I?" Ollie had known that it would be hard 
for her to maintain her position once she'd met 
Clifford; she wondered if Ollie's car was really in 
the shop or if that had just been an excuse for 
having his friend come by the house. 

"I thought maybe Clifford didn't like us," Kris said. 
"I thought he went away when we're coming 
because we're coming. I didn't think it was just his 

"Well, he hasn't ever lived around children," 
Sharon said. She poured what was left of the bottle 
of Scotch into her glass; it barely covered the 
bottom. It hadn't occurred to her that the children 
would blame Cliff for his absences, that their 
feelings would be hurt by his departures. She bit 
her lip, feeling at first regretful, and then angry at 
Ollie for putting her in such an awkward position. 

"I don't think that's it," Kris said. "I think..." 

"Mommy, aren't you going to come tuck me in?" 
Jarad climbed into Sharon's lap. His head was wet, 
smelling of baby shampoo. 

"Who washed your hair?" Sharon asked. 

"I did it myself," he said. "Hope helped me get the 
soap out. She poured water over my head." He 
sounded delighted, but Sharon was not sure if she 
was disappointed or relieved that he had taken a 
bath without her assistance. 

"I guess it is bedtime," she said. 

"It's after eight-thirty," Kris said officiously, closing 
her math book. 

"You understand about tomorrow, don't you, Kris? 
You know where to catch the bus? Just tell the 
driver you want off at the mall — he'll tell you 
where the stop is." 


Jarad slid off Sharon's lap and tugged at her hand. 
"Come on, Mom, I want you to read me a story — 
just one story." 

"I know how to get to the mall, Mom," Kris said. 
"I've gone on the bus with Aunt Gatti." She started 
down the hall. "You know, I would rather go out to 
the farm on Saturday. It's not really fair, making us 
stay at her house when you'll be at work all day. 
She won't even let us play outside by ourselves, 
and she gets tired after about ten minutes." When 
Kris closed the door to the room she shared with 
her sister, she pushed it shut emphatically, not 
quite slamming it, but clearly closing Sharon out. 

"Come on, Jarad," Sharon said. "Let's go read your 

The girls found their way to the mall with no 
difficulty, but by the time Hope had settled on a 
pair of tennis shoes which met all her criteria for 
color and style — how do eight-year-olds learn so 
much about fashion? Sharon wondered — they were 
all worn out. They stopped at a Burger King on the 
way home and picked up hamburgers to take 
home, Hope complaining that she wanted a Happy 
Meal from McDonald's instead. 

"It's too far out of the way, Hope," Sharon said. 

"This is better anyway," Kris said. "Here, have a 
french fry." Sharon was grateful for the support, 
but felt a twinge of guilt. Kris sounded more 
grown-up than a ten-year old should have to. 

Sharon retrieved Jarad from next door while the 
girls got out paper plates and napkins and distrib- 
uted the hamburgers and french fries. Hope was 
putting ice in the glasses when Sharon came in the 
door. "We can have pop tonight, can't we, Mom?" 
she asked. 

"You can even watch T.V. while you eat," Sharon 
said, "I need to make a phone call." 

She helped Jarad carry his plate and glass into the 
living room, then went upstairs. The phone by her 
bed was dimly lit by its own night light, and 
Sharon didn't turn on the overhead light. 

"It's me," she said when Ollie answered. "I don't 
know why, but I've changed my mind. You can 
take the kids to the farm tomorrow — Can you be 
here by eight? I need to get to work by eight- 

"Thank you," he said. "You'll see — it will be all 
right. I know the kids will like Cliff. What time 
shall I bring them home?" 

"Seven? That will give me time to start dinner," 
Sharon said. She sank back down into the bed. 

"Are you all right?" Ollie asked. 

"Do you have any idea how lonely I am?" she 

"I'm sorry," Ollie said. "I know it's hard... I know 
how hard it must be for you." 

"How can you know what it's like?" she asked. "I 
love you, and you love someone else. Not even a 
woman, a man. Do you know what it feels like for a 
woman to be replaced by a man?" 

"Sharon, don't make it so hard for me," he said. 
She knew he was struggling not to cry. That was 
another thing she'd always liked about Ollie — he 
could cry when he was hurt. 

"I'm not finished with this relationship," she said. 
"But... I don't know what else to do. You can take 
the kids tomorrow, but they can't spend the night 
with you. Not while Cliff is there." 

"Okay," he said. "That's okay. But I promise you, it 
will be all right." 

His voice sounded strangled, as if he were choking. 

"It's not that I don't want to be reasonable," she 
said. "It's just that I want to be happy, too." 

"I want... I want you to be happy," Ollie said. "You 
know I do. This isn't easy for me, either." 

"Oh, Ollie," she said. "Sometimes I hate you. 
Sometimes I'd even like to kill you." This last 
surprised her, but she felt it was true. "I would kill 
you, if I knew I'd feel better afterward." 

She could imagine Ollie, holding the phone away 
from his ear, a shocked expression replacing the 
pathetic, tearful one. She started to laugh. "I can't 
believe I said that," she said. 

"I can't either," he said weakly, rather distantly. 
She imagined he still held the phone away from his 
ear, as if her death threat could materialize across 
the miles which separated them. 

"Don't be a fool, Ollie," she said sharply. "I'm not 
going to hurt you — or anyone else. I can't. If I were 
going to kill you, I'd have done it by now." 


"I'm sorry," he said. "If I could be different..." 

"I hate 'I'm sorry/" she said. "If I ever hear anyone, 
especially myself, say it again, I think I'll..." She 
started to say "kill myself," but she stopped in 
time. "I think I'll scream," she finished instead. 

He sighed loudly. That was one of his qualities 
which she didn't like. He sighed when he should 
argue or be angry. 

"Look, Ollie," she said. "I'm not done with this. 
Maybe I never will be. But I'm not going to fight 
with you over Clifford anymore. You can come get 
the kids in the morning." 

After Ollie had hung up, Sharon lay the receiver on 
the floor, covering the mouthpiece with a pillow. I 
don't need two pillows, anyway, she thought. 

"Mom, are you okay?" Kris called from outside the 

"I'm fine," Sharon said. "Just tired. You guys 
should start getting ready for bed before too long. 
You're going to Dad's tomorrow, after all." 

"We are?" Kris stayed outside the door. "Will Cliff 
be there?" 

"Yes," Sharon said. "Cliff will be there." 

She heard Kris' footsteps moving down the hall. 
"Hope, Jarad — who wants the first bath? We're 
going to Dad's tomorrow." 

I have to get up, Sharon thought, but she didn't 
move. She fell asleep, and when she woke up, the 
house was dark and silent. She was hugging the 
pillow against her face, curled under a blanket Kris 
must have pulled up over her. 

Sharon remained huddled on one side of the bed, 
saving the other for Ollie, and drifted back to sleep 
without remembering that Ollie no longer shared 
her bed. In her sleep, her hand opened and closed, 
as if grasping at something, then relaxed and fell to 
rest against the empty place where Ollie's head had 
lain for thirteen years. She dreamed that she could 
fly, and that Ollie and the children, earthbound and 
envious as she skimmed the rooftops, begged her 
to return to them. 

In the morning, Sharon wrapped herself in a 
blanket and went to the window. Shivering, she 
stood alone in the soft gray light, waiting for the 
sun to rise. She remembered Ollie as he had been 

when she'd first met him — his cheeks flushed from 
walking in an autumn rain and his eyes bright with 
some kind of vague excitement. 

She pulled the blanket closer around her shoulders 
as the light outside became gradually clearer and 
warmer, moving slowly across the street, the lawn, 
the front of the house, and into the darkened 
bedroom. A dusty sunlight sparkled through the 
nearly leafless trees, cutting across the yard at an 
angle. She tried to remember the sensation of flying 
from her dream, but what came back to her was the 
voices of her children on the earth below, calling to 
her. "Come back, come back," they'd cried. 

"I'm coming," she almost called out, then realized 
that the house was silent. 

Below her the street was silent and green-golden, 
blanketed with the thick autumn air. "I'm coming," 
she said aloud, to no one, and turned from the 
window. "I'm coming." 



Severed rags of cloud dance past my fading moon 

like wisps of cotton pulled from milkweed pods. 

Blue gray ribbons break across my early dawn 

and cast a hint of orange to my trees. 

Lacework branches screen my lake, protect the shadowed places of my heart. 

Hard seams of sky creep in to fill the empty space. 

Frozen water in my icy veins shivers through my fingered trees 

that bend from frosty weight 

The smell of stillness crunches underneath my feet. 

Stellar crystals blanket all in gray 

The only sign of life is voiceless birds in leafless trees. 

Soft as silent wings across the barren landscape of my heart I cry. 

I am the winter of the heart. 

Time ticks on; the moment's still. 

Dragons live within my lake. 

I breathe from in its mirrored depths their fire, my fear, my pain. 

I tell myself my lies, get past the ragged edge of night, the cutting edge of dawn. 

Its icy cold contains me; motionless I lie. 

I try to hide, become a shadow without sound. 

My seeds don't die in wintertime; I hold them from the chill! 

They sleep and in the spring bring forth new buds, new hope, new will. 

Covered now but still I know that winter's not my journey's end. 
If I can face my truths with love, I know that dragons cannot win. 
Their fire cannot survive my icy lake! 
Very strong but fragile still, I know that winter always turns to spring. 

I hold the iciness of life, rub it warm, then let it go. 
We all have winter in our hearts 
We all have spring within our souls. 

Judy Miller 



Mary Ann Mannino 

Starting the motor, George said, "Let's catch up." 

Then, as though it were a matter of piling up a 
sufficient number of words, he began to tell Celeste 
about the three big cases he had settled in the past 
year ending with the one he had scheduled for trial 
in a month. 

"My client, a group of stockholders in a small 
subsidiary of Hughes Aircraft is suing Hughes for 
dumping its losses on them, making their stock 
virtually worthless. Of course Hughes denies the 
whole thing. When I win this one, I can name my 

He took his hands from the wheel rubbing them 
together, and letting out a long whistle through his 

Celeste thought he looked like a con artist on the 
Atlantic City boardwalk: short, a little overweight, 
so that his pants had permanent creases across the 
thighs, a patch of scalp peeking under thinning 
hair, and "Have I got a deal for you" eyes. Immedi- 
ately, she disliked herself for superimposing this 
unfavorable image on her husband. She rolled 
down her window, put her elbow on its edge and 
reaching up, opened her fingers like a star. 

"They'll have to give me a corner office, a new 
desk, one of those dark mahogany jobs that you 
need a piano mover to lift." 

She felt the night, as though it were tangible; 
something textured and bright like a patchwork 

"Even a seat on the executive committee." 

The night flattened itself out and slipped between 
her fingers. 

"Where's the trial going to be?" 

"It's not going to be long, two, three months. 

"But where?" 

He paused and his face took on a deflated look as 
though she had just discovered a misspelled word 
in one of his briefs. 

"Hughes is in Los Angeles." 

He looked over at her. 

"Listen I tried to get them to move to Philadelphia. 
I said, 'Move your company to our fair city. We'll 
knock down twenty or thirty blocks in the center of 
town. We'll change the tax laws, anything.' No- 
body paid any attention. So then I laid the truth on 
them, 'My wife doesn't like to get up early and 
drive the carpool, plus she has a bad back and can't 
put out the trash.' That didn't work either. Hughes 
is staying in California, and I'm flying out there 
and suing them." 

She pulled her fingers into a tight fist sewing the 
purple down inside. She didn't reply. She wanted 
to pad the air between them, but she didn't know 
how to spray words like air freshener and change 
the atmosphere. She looked outside hoping the 
distance between them would vaporize, and slip 
through the open window. At their beach house the 
sky would hang over the sand on a clothes line. 

"Celeste, would you roll up the window? This kind 
of air makes my allergies go crazy." 

She left it open a crack. She wondered if the shore 
would be different because her parents were dead. 
If somehow there would be a hole in the horizon, 
perhaps a leak in the sky to mirror her loss. 

"Did I tell you, Celeste, my book is due at the 
publisher's Tuesday?" 

"What book?" 

"What book?" 

He looked quizzically at her as though he thought 
she might have made a joke, but he wasn't really 

She thought it was wise to laugh. 

"Got me that time. I really thought for a minute 
you might have been too spaced out to remember 
my photographic history of Philadelphia." 


She heard him in the distance like the TV in an- 
other room. Once in a while she caught a phrase, 
"solid piece of work," "plenty of money," "another 

In the windshield she saw his reflection, a heavy 
face that seemed to be pulled into a frown by the 
weight of his cheeks and the thickness of his dark 

When they reached their house, George wanted to 
unpack the car, but she couldn't wait to touch the 
colors of the night, snuggle down into it on the 
sand dunes. 

"Wait," he said. "I'll come, but take the camera." 

She grabbed the Nikon. He took the tripod, several 
lenses and a light. 

"I never knew this stuff was so heavy,", she said 
trudging along behind him. 

"You can tell the quality of things by their weight." 

"What are you going to take pictures of? There are 
no bank buildings on the beach." 

"Now that the book is finished, I won't be taking 
any more photos of banks. I've gotten a shot of 
every bank that matters." 



That same incredulous look. 

"Listen, Celeste, I really believe that the way a 
society creates its buildings says everything about 
its values; tall, narrow ephemeral buildings show 
insubstantial people whose goals are not grounded 
in reality." 

Their house was brimming with photographs of 
massive structures in stone or brick. When she had 
passed them on the stairs carrying dinner-trays to 
her parents, they seemed to have added their 
weight to hers slowing her down, almost fastening 
her to the floors. 

"What I want to take a look at down here," he said, 
walking onto the sand and turning his back to the 
ocean, "is the erosion of the coast line." 

"Isn't this magnificent?" she said, reaching both 
hands above her head, waving wildly at absolutely 
nothing, like a tourist on an old-fashioned ocean 

The sky and the ocean were airing a quilt of deep 
blue violet with yellow calico stars, the delectable 
mountain pattern that covered her bed when she 
was a child. She was content. Then she noticed the 
rip, a hold in the sky where the moon leaked white 
feathers, thin as water, into the sea. 

"Could you hold the tripod? I can't really trust it in 
this sand." 

She sat down facing the ocean, and put her foot 
against one leg and with one hand held another. 
She felt she was losing her substance like the 
quilted sky. George fooled with the camera for a 
while, took several longshots of the dunes and the 
skyline of houses behind them. 

"George, you feel it too, don't you?" 


"The night." 

"Yeah, we should have brought sweaters, but you 
were in such a hurry to get down here. I'll be done 
in a second. You know this beach must have lost 
twenty to thirty feet since last summer." 

"Not that. I don't mean the coolness. I mean the 
way the space between the stars, that is everything 
and nothing, is disintegrating, spilling itself into 
the sea." 

He stopped adjusting the lens. For just an instant 
he was rock still. 

Then looking through the eye of the camera to the 
sand behind her he said, "Nice, really nice. When 
you compare this shot of the jetty to the one I took 
last year, you can see the sand is shifting rapidly 
into the inlet and away from the beach. In two or 
three years these houses are really gonna be in 
trouble if somebody doesn't start moving some 
boulders out here." 

He was emotionally tidy, she thought. He kept his 
heart in a watch pocket far enough from his skin 
not to rub against it and cause a rash. She had been 
like that, too. A person who moved objects from 
place to place, the laundry from the hamper to the 
washer, the food from the refrigerator to the stove, 
the bodies of her parents to the cemetery. Her 
whole life, she had hidden herself in long lists of 
things moved, as though those lists could create 
her, only to find in this last year while George 
worked on his book and her parents were dying 


that it was the space between the objects that was 
the reality. 

"Celeste, I'm going to drive over to Stone Harbor 
and buy an electric blanket." 

"Mom's quilts are still in the cedar closet back in 
the house." 

"Those old quilts never kept me warm enough. 
This half of the bed is moving to the twentieth 

She went with him to the hardware store. He 
bought a medium priced blue blanket. 

"You are going to beg to crawl under. Just you 
wait," he said at the checkout counter. 

Celeste felt annoyed, but she couldn't think of a 
reply, so she smiled. 

He turned toward Springer's ice cream parlor and 
Celeste tagged along like an indifferent child. They 
bought ice cream cones just like they had done the 
year they were married, the year she was pregnant 
with Mirinda, the year they had purchased the 
shore house. He ordered rum raisin, she ordered 
chocolate with chocolate jimmies. 

"This just doesn't taste the same, George." 

"Does to me." 

"Something is missing, maybe they changed some 
of the ingredients, used carob instead of chocolate." 

"That would be false advertising. They could be 
sued. Let me taste." 

She watched the ice cream drip down the sides of 
the cone. 

"Tastes just like chocolate to me." 

It became clear to her when he said it. The world 
was steady as the sea. She was the shifting coast- 

"I can't eat anymore." 

She dropped the cone in the trash can on the corner 
and she waited for George to say something. She 
wanted him to shake her or put his arm around her 
to indicate in some way that he was aware that 
pieces of herself were slipping through torn seams. 

They strolled through some of the shops. Celeste 
sniffed at fancy perfumed soaps, but somehow they 
reminded her of the antiseptic odor of hospital 

rooms. She cradled sea shells, checked the price of 
bathing suits, but felt detached from everything, as 
though she were watching herself in a movie. 
George searched the bookstore for new releases on 
photography, stopped at a tie shop and bought a 
yellow paisley tie. 

"I want to look in that needlepoint shop." 

"I thought you hated sewing." 

He was right. Needlecrafts were her mother's 
hobby. Her mother had made quilts since she was 
six, and taking a few stitches in a hem or torn seam 
was easy for her. Before her mother's final illness 
once a month Celeste had dropped a pile of mend- 
ing at her mother's. In a week or two, seams would 
be let in or out, hems lengthened or shortened, 
buttons fastened, and worn knees patched. Celeste 
would pick up a pile of neatly folded clothes. When 
her mother had suggested that she sit and learn 
how to do the work herself, Celeste never seemed 
to have the time. 

Now in the store she stared at the crewel samplers, 
counting the stitches, knowing that the different 
stitches had names but not being able to recall any 
of them. The names were lost to her now. This was 
a store her mother would have loved, but Celeste 
who had difficulty sewing a hem, felt an alien. She 
stroked the needlepoint eyeglass cases and mar- 
velled at the number of hours it must take to create 
them. She overheard a customer ask the sales lady 
if she carried quilt backs. She walked toward the 
register to see the woman's face. The woman 
wasn't the old gray-haired lady Celeste had ex- 
pected, but someone younger than herself with a 
baby in a sack on her back. 

"Did you see this, Celeste?" 

George handed her a book on quilting. There were 
illustrations of each pattern, the history of its use 
and directions for stitching it. She thumbed 
through the pages, wanting to recognize some- 
thing, but the photographs were all in black and 
white making it hard to recognize the patterns, and 
the directions were something she could not under- 
stand at all. 

"Why don't you buy it? You can read about those 
old quilts, maybe try making one vourself." 

The book was something she might have bought 
for her mother as a gift from the shore. It was 
useless to her. 

"It's too expensive." 

She put the book back. George bought a newspa- 

That night she couldn't sleep. It was as though she 
were trying to settle down in a feather bed, but the 
lumps didn't fit her body. She had grown out of 

The rest of the weekend went the same way. 
George wanted to drive to Cape May, something 
she had always loved. Now she preferred riding 
her bike on the wet sand. She wanted Chinese food 
on the roof deck; he wanted steak at the yacht club, 
the same dinner he ate every first Saturday night at 
the shore. She slept under the delectable mountain 
quilt; he slept under the electric blanket. They left 
the shore Sunday night instead of Monday as they 
had planned. 

He was asleep, curled away from her against the 
door, while she drove. Glancing across the empty 
space on the seat she saw the rip in George's 
trouser's seam, a reminder that suddenly there 
were too many rips here and there that needed 
mending. She had thought about taking a course at 
the local high school in the fall, had read through 
the brochure and circled some that interested her. 
Although she read the blurbs on the sewing 
courses, none of them had appealed. Now, she 
thought maybe basic sewing was what she needed. 
George snorted in his sleep and wrapped his arms 
tighter around his body enclosing himself in the 
cocoon of his blue sweater. She swerved around 
another car, and the jerkiness of the motion woke 
him up. 

He groaned. "Where are we?" 

"Winslow's Junction, about half-way there." 

"Celeste, they changed the name to just Winslow 
about twenty years ago." 

"I like the old name better. It reminds me of two 
vast open fields meeting in the night." 

"That's probably why they changed the name." 

He sneezed. "Have you got that window open?" 

"Just a crack." 

He sneezed again. "How many times have I told 
you my sinuses can't tolerate the night air? There is 
something downright unhealthy in it." 

Before she shut the window she stuck her finger 
through the crack, reaching into the night, holding 
onto the pattern she knew was there. 

"I'm going to sign up for a night-school course." 

"In what?" 

"Well, it's between basic sewing and Gothic Cathe- 

"I didn't want to say anything but my raincoat has 
needed two buttons since your mother got sick." 

"Did you ever notice how Gothic cathedrals soar?" 

"And the inside pocket in my grey suit is ripped. 
That's why I haven't been wearing it. There is no 
place to put my wallet." 

"It's the Gothic concept of limitless space that 
intrigues me." 

"Who is going to do the mending?" 

"I don't know George, but I'm not my mother." 

"Your mother was a sensible woman." 

"She knew how to give me something I must have. 
She knew how to give me space." 



The way it is is this 

All the words have slipped away 

And down the hall the music is too loud 

And she is slipping away 

I named her for a woman 

who does not remember either of us 

Perhaps maybe me 

Frightened on a bareback horse, age 14. 

I never knew where she was, later, to say 

I loved you in that kitchen 

with your fourteen children 

baking biscuits at dawn 

and giving us pancakes with whipped cream 

fresh from the separator in the corner 

in Holt, Minnesota, 

Aunt Rose. 

So now I am in a kitchen 
looking at a cold stove 

and your Rose is in the shower 
and not hungry tonight 

Dana Collins 


Like old war 

vets vexed 

with war glories, 

old whores, 

with their old whore stories, 

gather in, late, 

when the other kind 

has vacated, 

and over doubles 

and triples 

they ripple laughter, 

asexual and on 

edge, just taking time 

to shine 

their purple hearts 

before turning 


Rose Maria Woodson 



Artist Marikay Peter Witlock 

works with the landscape in drawings and paintings. 

Outside the studio she designs and maintains perennial gardens 

where she draws on the spirit of the land. 

She can be contacted through her studio 

with the White Oak Group, 90 North Street, Park Forest, IL 60466. 

The "Prairie Series" is a set of five drawings 

celebrating the beauty and diversity of the natural environment — 

the grasses and forbes that carpet the Illinois prairie before and after man. 

In the "Prairie Chapel" the trees, grasses, and wildflowers 

create the walls and floor of a chapel whose roof is the sky. 

The architectural elements are real or imagined, 

beginning or end, spirit or memory. 

They are surrounded, dwarfed, integrated with the land. 

Together they form a sense of place. 

Mi i i 



: : * 


Prairie Chapel A.P. II 

M. Peter Witlock, 1988 


Detail from an original graphite drawing, M. Peter Witlock, 198 

pmte urawmg 


They are falling 

under the bending arms of our Old Oak. 

Their fragile bodies lean 

one over one 

each attempting to climb its trunk 

just once more. 


These are the women who taught us 

how to skip rope on a cobblestone street 

how to bounce a small ball 

against a yellow peeling wall. 

These are the women who wore 

blood from our bruises on their lips 

who kept vigil on long dark nights 

over our fevered young flesh. 

They are old now 

and tired. 

They are leaving us, Mary. 

Can we become the women who wear 

blood from their bruises on our lips 

who keep vigil on long dark nights 

over their fevered dry flesh. 

Can we become the women who teach 

them to lean their fragile bodies 

on us and fall slowly down. 

They have to do it. 

we know that 

and they know too. 

They are old now 

and tired. 

They are leaving us, Mary. 

Joanne Samraney 



After the last burning cinder, 

Seeds swirl 

Round and round in whorls of ash. 

A field of children 


Curled damp fingers 

Red heads like copper crowns 


Toothless mouths sucking air and leaves 


White undersides and muddy knees 


Fleshy-pulp bellies 

At last, 

Fungus toes that root in dirt. 

A field of children 

With damp curled fingers 

Who live in the snow 

The tops of their red heads break through the icy 


Make tracks along the white ground 

Like small spots of blood 

Leading back into the forest. 

Kathleen de Azevedo 


Great Spirit 

Show me my innocence 

my beauty 

Let me see it in faces 

in stars 

in the deep purple night 

the quiet of winter moon 

Who needs the lonely thrash of flesh 

with sad hearts 

when the woods call 

and the silence whispers 

of something else 

And who but does laugh 

as bodies try to join 
when only minds can meet 

Do you want to sit with me and listen: 
warriors on a spirit path 
hearing a distant sound 

Let my heart melt in listening 
so I can know love 

Carole Fincher 



Janet Cowser 

"Women are always and have (always) been afraid. They fear 
lest some small little things of their domestic drudgery will go 
wrong and lead to some little inconvenience. They are afraid of 
their families when they are present and when they are gone. 
They fear to make changes. Intrinsically women are the equal 
of men but women are afraid and men are not." - Anne 
Brigman, 1909. 

Anne Brigman was not afraid. She was a photogra- 
pher who had a sure sense of herself. She realized 
her need for freedom of expression. Her photo- 
graphs express her ideas and feelings. Brigman is 
one of the women photographers featured in the 
exhibition Women Photographers in Camera Work 
at the National Museum of Women in the Arts, 
Washington, D.C. Camera Work, a magazine edited 
and published by Alfred Stieglitz until 1971, was 
devoted to fine photography, especially pictorialist 
works. The "Pictorial" movement, with its empha- 
sis on subjectivity, was among the first of the arts 
movements in which women were recognized for 
their achievements on an equal footing with men. 
The pictorialists used soft focus and various print- 
ing techniques to emphasize expressiveness. The 
content of their images was highly personal. 

Of the photographers featured in this exhibition, 
including Alice Boughton, Mary Devens, Gertrude 
Kasebier, Sara Sears and Eva Watson-Schutze, 
Brigman's work eloquently exemplifies the highly 
personal nature of the pictorial style. The work of 
all these women involved portraits. However, 
Brigman's revolutionary studies of female nudes in 
natural surroundings are unlike the traditional 
portraits her contemporaries created. Her images 
express an integration of the female spirit with the 
life spirit of the earth. These images had won her 
praise and notoriety by the turn of the century. 

Brigman and her friends, who were her models, 
would climb into the High Sierras and compose 
these images. In "The Source," (1905), a female 
nude kneels on one knee, holding a pitcher of water 
near her face. A stream of water pours from the 
pitcher and blends with the water in the riverbed in 
which she poses. The waters tumble over rocks in 
front of her. She is the source of the waterfall, the 

National Museum of Women in the Arts, Washington, D.C. 

source of the lifegiving waters of the earth. The 
spirit of the female pours forth like the flowing 
waters. Water is also the theme of "Thaw," (1906). 
A female nude is posed, looking at her hand. The 
shape of her slightly bent spine conforms to the 
natural curve of ice at the edge of a glacier where it 
meets the rock of a mountain. She seems to be at 
one with the force of the ice. 

In "Soul of the Blasted Pine," (1908), the female 
nude is the life force of a pine tree. She stands in 
the twisted, broken stump of a tree. Her left arm 
stretches up toward the dark gray sky, her face 
looks at her hand high in the air. The clouds seem 
to rumble in the background as this spirit stretches 
toward the sky. "The Dying Cedar," (1909), fea- 
tures a gossamer-clothed female with both arms 
overhead, stretching and angled to mirror the 
twisting branches of the cedar tree. Again she looks 
up toward a dark sky. These images are not peace- 
ful, like the water spirit images. These involve 
stretching beyond limitations. Brigman's spirit was 
expanding, in her own life as well as in her photo- 
graphs. She was a fervent feminist, separating from 


her husband to "work out my destiny." She cham- 
pioned women's rights and equality for women. 

Brigman's free spirit is expressed eloquently in 
"The Westwind," (1915). A female nude dances on 
a beach, holding a gossamer cloth between her two 
arms stretched overhead. The cloth is rippling in 
the wind. As she is dancing joyously, her feet seem 
not to touch the ground, adding to the sense of 
freedom and spirituality. She seems to dance a duet 
with her shadow cast on the wet, shining sand. 
Brigman posed a duet of friends in "The Heart of 
the Storm," (1902). The two women stand together. 
One woman stands facing forward, nude. The 
second woman, wrapped in a sheer cloth, leans on 
the shoulder of the first woman as she holds her 
face in her hands. They stand in the hollow created 
by two twisted, tortured trees. A bright spot in the 
stormy, cloudy skies forms a halo around the head 
of the first woman. The message of this image is 
interpreted by each viewer as these women seem to 
comfort one another. 

More commonly, Anne posed women individually. 
In "Incantation," (1905), a gossamer-clothed 
woman stands on a rock ledge, silhouetted against 
the sky, high up in the mountains. She holds both 
her arms stretched overhead, communing with the 
spirits of the mountains. The exhibition closes with 
an eerie negative print, "The Cleft of the Rock," 
(1907). In the negative image, dark and light are 
reversed. The dark image of the female nude is 
different from a silhouette. As she stretches her arm 
behind her, her body creates a new shadowy 
fracture line in the rock formation. Her image is 
triangular in form, keeping the viewer's eye within 
the photograph for an extended time. Her eyes 
glow a curious white, adding to the impression that 
she is the spirit of the rock, not a human. 

A critic, writing in Camera Work, January, 1911, said 
Anne Brigman "...seems to have sought to grasp 
the very soul of nature, and her entire collection is 
rhythmic with the poetry of nature, its bigness, its 
grandeur, its mystery - pervaded with a certain 
bigness of feeling that the splendor of our Western 
nature seems to infuse the soul." In 1949, Brigman 
published Songs of the Pagan, a group of 35 poems 
illustrated with an equal number of photographs. 
She died in California in 1950, but her spirit lives 
on in her photographs. 

Anne Brigman's photographs are images of women 
created by a woman. They are not like the images 
of female nudes created by men. In comparing her 
images with those created by her male contempo- 
raries, the differences in feelings and attitudes are 
easily seen. The males posed females in pert, 
sexual, or coyly embarrassed poses, or used them 
as lovely objects posed with other lovely objects. 
Brigman's female nudes are spirited individuals, 
expressing strength, freedom, joy, and the living 
forces of nature. 


Curator's statement, Marianne Fulton, Senior Curator of 
Exhibit and Photography Collections, George Eastman House, 
New York. 

Camera Work: A Critical Anthology, edited by Jonathan Green, 
1973, Aperture, Inc. 

The National Museum of Women in the Arts is a private non-profit 
museum dedicated to increasing awareness of the outstanding 
achievements of women in the visual and performing arts. The 
permanent collection consists of over J500 pieces dating from the 
Renaissance to the present, created by more than 400 women artists 
from 28 countries. 

Janet Cowser's photographs appeared in our Winter 1992 



the old women pile into Naugahyde 
booths patched with masking tape 
four brands of dimestore perfume 
mingle with smells of 
hot cakes and sausages 

the years have led them through 
the Depression 
three wars and 
eight grandchildren 

all of their husbands are dead 
now they feel free 

Edgar never would have let me 
do this while he was alive 

says the one wearing Tigress 
who orders blueberry muffins and Harry's 
strong coffee with four lumps of sugar 
and what they call cream 


You have remained fixed 

like an oak I pass 

each day on my way 

to this latest 

temporary position. 

While I travel 

from city to city, 

you send letters 

to keep the current surging 

between us. You wrote 

last week 

that your wife lowered the hem 

on your son's trousers, 

that your daughter's breasts 

are beginning to bud, 

and asked where I would be 

so you could write again. 

I check the map, 
make calculations, 
to see how far 
I'll be from you 
next time. 

If I drew a line connecting 

the cities where I've lived, 

it would form a circle 

around the city 

where you live, a center 

in my circular route, 

a holding place, 

a firm, black dot, 

where you will always live, 

where I can never visit. 

Catherine Hardy 

Catherine Hardy 




And Adam said, this is now bone of my 

bones, and flesh of my flesh; she shall 

be called Woman, because she was taken 

out of man. Genesis 2:23 

Even asleep I feel 

your gaze, 

A hunger lifts 

me from my dream: 

Give her a wooden spoon 

and a tin pail, its promise 

swinging over the sand 

like a squeaking gull. 

She will do the rest: 

invent music, calm priests 

and restore the indigent. 

Learn harmony: the sand, 

the pail, the heart. 

fingertips at 

piano keys 

one Monday night 

slide guitar and sax. 

Carol Barrett 


Give me 
your ear, 
hear my 

rhythm. Take 
my blue-veined wrist 

and taste the heat 
of my skin. Now close 

your eyes: count my 

ribs with your hands 

and try to tell me 

man came first. 

Mary Leen 

Work from the basement up. 

Set the chairs and furnace high. 

Roll white paper on folding 

tables, creasing the edge 

with your thumb. Stack 

blue-gray hymnals on a bench 

and count the canes swinging. 

Continue with casseroles. 

At the last, render a thousand 

unexpected guests. Only then 

attempt the steeple. 

Carol Barrett 




The time she spent as a child was sharpened on the 
stone of being alone. There were dozens of hours in 
an afternoon and night time was only an inconve- 
nience. She tossed dried pinwheels like confetti, 
blew dandelion seeds into the fragile air. There was 
no jagged motion then, only twirling, spinning, 
rolling and swinging. She was not afraid to eat 
begonia blossoms, crabapples or snow. Squirrels 
scolded her from their perches, scheming to drop 
acorns on her blonde head. She knew a wasp from 
a hornet and a yellow-jacket from a bumblebee. 
Bare feet on hard rubber bicycle pedals could take 
her anywhere and she would ride, no-hands, 
indifferent to a fall. Magellan or Marco Polo had 
nothing on her when she tapped a frozen surface 
with a stick, following the creek to its source, 
undaunted by leaky galoshes. Lightning bugs 
flashed softly in her hands, their vague glow 
escaping through the fingercracks. While playing 
scientist in the side yard, she saw her first hum- 
mingbird. It was vibrating, sipping from the center 
of a wysteria flower. She stopped her play, trans- 
fixed by that tiny, frantic bird. And when she lay 
underneath a pine bough on a copper mat of 
fragrant fallen needles, she never suspected that 
this was as good as it gets. 

Susan McCarthy McDonald 






Lark Books, Ashville, NC 1992 

Edited by Nancy Orban 

Reviewed by Karen Page 

If you are a fiber artist, a collec- 
tor of art or someone who appre- 
ciates looking at contemporary 
artwork - this book might inter- 
est you. It is not a "how to" book. 
It is not an historical survey of 
textiles. In fact there are few 
words included in this volume. It 
is a book filled with colored 
plates and each page is a visual 
delight. This is current fiber 
work at its best. There are 800 
pieces included. They are di- 
vided according to techniques: 

tapestry, paper and felt, 
wearables, quilts, needlework, 
2 dimensions, 3 dimensions, 
surface design 

I believe there is something for 

This book contains four thou- 
sand entries from 24 countries, 
including work from well known 
artists and work from novices 
who had never published. That's 
one of the things I like about this 
book, whether an artist works in 
isolation in a remote area or in 
the midst of an academic or 
artistic setting, each had an 
opportunity to be included in 
this publication. The Design 
Book Series was started in 1980 
and is the only effort to docu- 
ment the textile arts. 

Those of us who have been in fiber arts since the 
1960's have observed the evolution of styles, mate- 
rials and attitudes. As I look back, it's an exciting 
history. Textiles arts are now included in major 
exhibits and museum collections across the United 

States. We are taken seriously in most art circles 
and the current work reflects the diversity of our 
efforts. Fiber Arts Four is indeed a celebration of 
color, texture, technique and the artist /person who 
put it all together. 




Villard Books, New York, 1992 

Patricia Aburdene and John Naisbitt 

Reviewed by Kathryn Godfrey 

The husband-and-wife team of Aburdene and 
Naisbitt have released their third-in-a-series of 
bestselling trend books in 10 years. In their latest 
work, Megatrends for Women, they make the claim 
that the women's movement has reached a point at 
which the momentum for change has become 
self-sustaining. Although it may suffer 
temporary setbacks, say the authors, 
women's march toward equality wi 
henceforth be unstoppable. 

In chapters on women in politics, 
business, social activism, religion and 
sports, as well as sections on health 
issues facing women and chang- 
ing attitudes toward family and 
fashion, Aburdene and Naisbitt 
support their upbeat theory and 
confidently predict that women 
and society will be the benefi- 
ciaries of the fundamental 
women-generated changes 
taking place in the 21st century. 

According to the authors, 
popular support for women's 
equality is in excess of the 20 
percent "critical mass" thresh- 
old that social theorists cite as the point where a 
sufficient number of people accept and adopt a 
practice or idea so that it becomes a self-sustaining 
part of the culture. 

Women, and like-minded men, say Aburdene and 
Naisbitt, are building a whole new power structure 
that integrates women's values, concerns and 
leadership. But because this new reality exists side- 
by-side with the old, male-dominated power 
structure, we will continue to see a great deal of 
injustice against women. For this reason, say the 
authors, it is important now to shift from con- 
sciousness-raising to activism and focus on the 

women who are utilizing their power to bring 
about a new balanced social order. 

As the authors predicted, women utilizing their 
power were especially apparent this election year 
when a record number of women running for office 
took full advantage of anti-incumbent sentiment 
and angry reaction to the treatment of Anita Hill 
during Senate confirmation hearings. As the 
authors also predicted, many of these women 
candidates won seats in the House and Senate, 
tipping the congressional gender balance toward 

The authors make the following predictions: 

— We will have a woman president by the year 
-,. 2008 who will have served two terms as 

governor of a large state like Texas or Cali- 
fornia and is today a mayor, a state legisla- 
tor, state treasurer or governor. 

-Management leaders everywhere 
will come to realize that women's 
natural approach to leadership, 
which motivates, inspires and 
empowers, is simply the best 
% way to manage the educated, 
highly-skilled workforce of the 
information age. Women-owned 
business, the fastest growing 
segment of the U.S. economy, will 
outpace its current record level in 
the future — (More than 5 million 
women now lead small-to- 
medium size growth businesses 
and in 1992, they surpassed the 
Fortune 500 in numbers of 
people employed.) 

— Forty to fifty million women will undergo 
menopause in the next two decades, revolution- 
izing medicine's approach to breast cancer and 
heart disease. Post-menopausal women will be 
revalued as wise-women, whose knowledge 
and experience have prepared them for top 

— The growing popularity of goddess mythol- 
ogy will become the metaphor for women's 
growing self-esteem and economic and politi- 
cal power. As a feminist theologian put it, "As 



long as God is male, the male is God." 

— Women will even transform history's most 
sexist institution — organized religion. Women 
make up 30 percent of U.S. theological students 
and, though the Vatican outlaws women's 
ordination, two-thirds of U.S. Catholics believe 
women should be priests. 

— Parents, not politicians, will create a family 
revival: to spend more time with their kids 
millions will reorganize their work lives with 
home businesses, telecommuting or part time 
work. Fed-up with the two-career trend, 
whereby spouses hardly see each other, hun- 
dreds of thousands of people will decide to go 
into business together as "collaborative 
couples." Along with hard work, they will find 
freedom, flexibility and financial gain. 

In Megatrends for Women, Aburdene and Naisbitt 
offer a positive, feel-good vision of the future in 
which oppression will inexorably be replaced by 
the empowerment of women in a new partnership 
with men. The relentlessly optimistic authors reject 
the notion, posed in Susan Faludi's book Backlash, 

The Undeclared War Against American Women, that 
counterreaction to women's gains in the second 
half of this century could endanger hard won 
ground in all areas of women's rights. Aburdene 
and Naisbitt dismiss religious fundamentalism and 
the rightward-leaning Supreme Court as the 
"small, ill-gotten victories" of the remnants of 
decadent male-dominated society with a few lines 
in their introduction. The authors simply refuse to 
dwell on the negative forces pitted against women 
which they admit are still much in evidence. In- 
stead, they call upon women (and men) to envision 
a new world "where women create institutions, 
collaborate as equal partners with men, and change 
the male-dominated structures they can no longer 
live in." This book is intended to be used as an aid 
in the next crucial process of visualization of that 
new and better world. 

Kathryn Godfrey is a student in Media Communications, 
doing her internship as editorial assistant to Tlie Creative 



T,<»7\ 111 J 

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"Published under the Auspices of the Provost's Office" has run on our masthead from Volume 1, No. 
1, Summer of 1977. During that time, there has never been even a hint of censorship, proving that this 
University provided a hospitable setting, honoring freedom of the press as well as academic freedom 
for a small, feminist, sometimes controversial, voice. 

The editors and staff of The Creative Woman thank the administrators who have supported us for 
fifteen years. 

Ted Andrews 

Acting Vice President for 
Academic Affairs 
January 1976 - July 1977 
Provided our initial 
administrative support. 

Curtis McCray 


August 1977 - June 1982 
Continued to sponsor us 
for our first five years. 

David Curtis 


July 1982 - to present (on leave 

since September 1992) 

Stood by us through ten years. 

Carolyn Conrad 

Acting Provost - since 

September 1992 

Is our current sponsor. 

Paula Wolff 

President - since September 1992 
It took us fifteen years to achieve it, but 
we can go now: we finally have a creative 
woman heading Governors State 
University. With proud and happy hearts 
we welcome Paula. 



I ^9^ 

Helen E. Hughes, Editor 

Lynne Hostetter and Linda Kuester, 
Word Processing 


Mark Gayton, Laird Hartley and Bob Sisk, Print Shop 

Eddie Herman & George Yesvardes. 
Print Shop 




La depression, mal du siecle et de la femme... Le dossier 
du n°43 de Chronique Feministe essaie d'en deTinir certains 

Patrizia Romito, constate que la m6decine privilege les 
causes individuelles de la depression, ce qui permet de con- 
sid6rer le deprime' comme un malade a soigner, alors que la 
surrepr6sentation des femmes dans la depression aurait du 
amener a en eTudier les causes psycho-sociales. 

Hedwige Peemans-Poullet s'interroge, sur une attitude fr6- 
quente des femmes devant la vie qu'elle nomme «paresse». 
Sans m6sestimer les contraintes sociales qui peuvent 
conduire les femmes a la depression, elle suggere que c'est 
leur propre manque de desir qui les fait s'engluer dans les 
taches quotidiennes et repetitives, et les empeche de 
s'impliquer dans les projets collectifs. 

Le n°: 200 FB - Abonn. 5 n°: 700 FB a rigler en FB 
par mandat postal international (comm.: MP/43) 
University des Femmes - la, Place QuStelet 
1030 Bruxelles - Til: 0212 19. 61. 07 

The Thanks be To Grandmother 
Winifred Foundation 

The Thanks be To Grandmother Winifred Founda- 
tion encourages, through individual grants, the 
creativity of women over fifty-four years of age to 
develop and implement projects, programs or 
policies that empower and enrich one or more 
aspects of the cultural, economic, educational, 
ethnic, mental, physical, professional, racial, sexual, 
social, and spiritual well being of women. 

If interested in applying for a grant, please write to 
the foundation at: 

P.O. Box 1449 
Wainscott, New York 11975 

Kitchen Table 

Women of Color Press 
PQ Box 908 
Latham, New York 12110 
(518) 434-2057 

Kitchen Table: Women of Color Press, the only U.S. 
publisher for women of color, has just released a 
three-color commemerative poster of the ad as part 

Usher, Barbara Smith, states: "We believe that the 
poster will inspire people and that it offers a con- 
crete example of how political activism can make a 
difference in these very difficult times." 

For additional information; to obtain graphics; or to 
arrange interviews, please contact Kitchen Table: 
Women of Color Press: 518/434-2057. 





Three thousand five hundred years ago there 
flourished a magnificent civilization on the Island 
of Crete in the Aegean Sea, distinguished by ad- 
vanced metal-working, art, dance, bull-leaping, 
architecture, aquaducts, religion and a far-reaching 
sea-going commerce. The island culture lasted a 
thousand years without armies, navies, weapons or 
even protective fortifications, until destroyed by 
the invading Greeks. Studies of their written 
languages reveal that women played an important 
part in life, art, government and religion - -to such 
an extent that Riane Eisler in her book The Chalice 
and the Blade described the Minoan society as the 
latest surviving example of a pre-patriarchal Part- 
nership society, honoring women and attributing to 
women participation in the divine. Feminists get 
excited about Crete, because if it is true that a 
Partnership society once existed, it may exist again. 
And if so, we have an answer to those who claim 
that subordination of women and supremacy of the 
male is a universal, unchanging given throughout 

Margarita Papandreou and Riane Eisler, with 
Marija Gimbutas, spent several years dreaming and 
planning a unique conference on the island of 
Crete. (You can read their story in the Summer 
issue of The Creative Woman.) This October I got 
myself over there, with a group from DuPage 
County, to meet 500 women and men from forty 
countries, gathered for a week of thinking, sharing, 
celebrating, remembering, and asking, "If people 
lived more joyously and peacefully in the past, 
can't we find the way to do so now?" 

We were housed in a large, comfortable resort 
hotel, the Akti Zeus (means beach or coast of Zeus) 
in Heraklion. The program included trips to the 
ancient site of the palace of Knossos, to the Vene- 
tian marina, the Museum in Heraklion. There was 
theatre, an art exhibit, slide shows, and of course, 
music and Greek dancing, which everyone can do. 

We swam in the Aegean Sea and the hotel swim- 
ming pools, we danced on the beach by the light of 
a full moon. We met interesting, beautiful people 
from all over the world, had dozens of intense 
conversations, exchanged addresses, and promised 
to keep in touch and each of us increase the possi- 
bility of Partnership by our own dedicated efforts. 
The main focus of the conference, however, was the 
workshops on many topics including Politics of the 
Solar Age: New Economics, in which I enrolled. 
Nikos Papandreou, Peggy Antrobus and Hilkka 
Pietila, three outstanding economists from Athens/ 
San Diego, the Caribbean and Finland were our 

We spent the first day in my workshop, consider- 
ing what's wrong with mainstream economics as 
currently understood: it is not oriented toward 
people but toward a series of myths and fallacies, 
such as the supposed rationality of the market, the 
fact that price theory does not reflect reality (for 
example, the price of gasoline does not reflect the 
costs of pollution or the dirninishment of resources) 
and global institutions such as the World Bank and 
International Monetary Fund reflect obsolete, 
exploitative notions of "development." We pon- 
dered the facts: One billion people on this planet 
live in absolute poverty, owning nothing. Most 
people on this planet do not have safe water. In 30 
years the world population is expected to reach or 
exceed 12.5 billion human beings. 

Hazel Henderson's "Three Layer Cake with Icing" 
(on page 46) is a model that illustrates the fallacy of 
the "extraction economy" as compared to the 
"cultivation economy." It shows how industrial 
society rests upon unpaid labor (most of it per- 
formed by women) and on Mother Nature - - all 
our natural resources which are being so rapidly 
depleted in a short-sighted way. 

Together we developed a description of a more 
adequate and realistic economics: it should be 
holistic and integrative, linking political and envi- 
ronmental and economic models; it should foster 
sustainable development; it should be based on 
self-reliance not dependency; and it should encour- 
age democratic and participatory institutions, de- 
centralized authority and accountability in govern- 
ments. We found we had developed an argument 


GMP Monetized 
Vi of Cako 
Top Two Layers 
Monetized, Officially 
Measured GNP 
Gencralcs All 
Economic Statistics 
(15% "Underground" 
Illegal, Tax-Dodging) 

Hon Monetized 
Productive '/i ol Cake 
Lower Two Layers Non- 
Monetized Altruism, Sliarln; 
"Counter Economy" Sub- 
sidizes Top Two GNI> Caoh 
Sectors wllli Unpaid Labor 
and Environmental Costs 
Absoibed or Unaccounted. 
Risks Passed to Future 


for simpler living and that we had gone beyond 
"new economics" to envisioning new lifestyles. 

Well, we have our work cut out for us. The confer- 
ence is over and 
we have a few 
free days to go up 
in the mountains, 
explore caves, 
drive along the 
coast, visit tiny 
hamlets un- 
changed it seems 
in centuries, relax, 
unwind and talk 
with our friends. I 
want to tell you 
about one day in 
the hills of Crete 
with seven of us 
new-found com- 
panions in a 
rented van. 
Gladys and Bertt 
from Maine 
(Pediatric Center), 
Rolf and Ann 

from Norway (Art Gallery), Nasheem from India 
and Hyde Park (ecological geologist), Zhenya from 
Moscow (pediatrician and feminist social activist). 
We get acquainted by telling each other "what we 
are passionate about." Hiking up a hillside, past the 
vineyards, we stop to sample the ripe grapes - they 
are warm from the sun, and sweet - the best I ever 
tasted. Nasheem explains to us what caused the 
deforestation of these bare hills, what would be 
required to restore them, the cycles of life forms 
over perhaps a thousand years. Bertt tells us that to 
melt the iceberg of patriarchy can never be done 
with cigarette lighters or blow torches ... it can 
only be done by melting it in an ocean of love and 
understanding. Gladys, Zhenya and I are exchang- 
ing dreams, stories from childhood. Gladys tells us 
how important silence is for her: in silence she feels 
in touch with the infinite; and she realizes that it is 
only when she speaks that the bond is broken. We 
share moments of silence. Distant goat bells reach 
us from the mountain opposite. I ask Zhenya to 
sing something for us. . . a folk song . . . something 
in Russian. "Of course." Zhenya sings in a clear, 
pure voice, the melody soaring gently over the dry 
hillsides like a bird in flight. It seemed even the 

Total Productive System ol an Industrial Socloly 
(Tlifco-Layor Caka with lcin<j) 

nse, Stale and Local Govt. 
r Inlrasirucluro ((loads, Main 
. Bridges. Subways. Schools 
Municipal Government) 

Do It-Yoursell. Bartering 
, Community Structures 
ousehold & Parenting, Voluntoorlng 
Mutual Aid. Cailng lot Old and Sick 
; tiasod Pioductlon lor Usa- 
Subsistence Agilculture _, 


GNP "Public" Sector 

Social Cooperative 



goats lifted their heads to listen. I think to myself: 
this is what the human voice brings, the human 
presence, the human consciousness. Nature alone is 
incomplete. We are needed here on this planet, to 

be an essential 
part of it. 
GAIA wants 
to hear 
song. We are 
all moved, 
wipe away 
tears. We stop 
at a tiny 
village for 
lunch in a 
courtyard. We 
climb back in 
the van, go 
down the 
valley, back to 
the Akti Zeus. 
Rolf says, 
H; " e "' < """ r ' so ' , "This day was 

a poem." 

Last week a card from Bertt arrived. It is the En- 
glish translation of Zhenya's song. It describes a 
bird searching for its mate. 

Between Heaven and Earth 

The song is sounding. 

It flows like a tireless stream. 

It sounds louder and louder 

And you cannot see 

The singer in the fields. 

The singer flies above its mate 

And the name is wood lark. 

That day on the mountains of Crete with new 
friends perfectly expresses for me the many-lay- 
ered meanings of my Minoan Experience. 



Andrei, Josee. "Sister of the Night." (painting) Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 

de Azevedo, Kathleen. "Mushroom Children," (poem) Vol. 12, 
No. 3, P. 31.Bacavis, Adrianne, Harder, Heather Ann and 
Rominger, Anna Sue. "Partnership Parenting the Native 
American Way." Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 19. 

Bailey-Mershon, Glenda. "Helicopters." (poem) Vol. 11, No. 2, 
P. 32. 

Barrett, Carol. "Drawing A Child," (poem) Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 35. 

Barrett, Carol, "Drawing A Chuch," (poem) Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 

Birnbaum, Barry and Reis, Judy Panko. "Touching the 
Rainbow: The Art of Josee Andrei." Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 29. 

Boersma, Jay. "Janet Cowser, In Nature, Herself." Vol. 12, No. 
1, P. 24. 

Boersma, Jay. "The Difference Between Popular and 
Unpopular Photography." (photographs) Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 34. 

Brentan, Anne Glaser. "Acts of Creativity, Acts of Love: 
Mothering With Disabilities." Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 5. 

Bubon, Linda. Book Review. "A Very Personal Review" Bi Any 
Other Name: Bisexual People Speak Out, edited by Loraine 
Hutchins and Lani Kaahumanu. Vol. 11, No. 3. P. 32. 

Burd, Richard. "Ancestral Figure." (photograph) Steel 
sculpture by Art Schmaltz. Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 27. 

Burd, Richard. "Dream Flight." (photograph) Wood sculpture 
by Art Schmaltz. Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 28. 

Burd, Richard. "Goddess Sculptures." (photographs) Metal 
sculptures by Art Schmaltz. Vol. 11, No. 1. P. 27. 

Burd, Richard. "Incubation" (photograph) Wood sculpture by 
Art Schmaltz. Vol. 11, No. 1, cover. 

Burd, Richard. "Mother Earth." (photograph) Steel sculpture 
by Art Schmaltz. Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 28. 

Burgess, Leslie. "Untitled." (drawing) Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 11. 

Cacari-Stone, Lisa. "Mother, Maiden, Crone II: Alma Mia (My 
Soul)." Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 32. 

Cade, Cathy. "Ann, 1981." (photograph) Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 22. 

Cade, Cathy. "Bobbi, Ann, Loren, 1982." (photograph) Vol. 11, 
No. 3, P. 24. 

Cade, Cathy. "Cathy Cade, 1981." (self-portrait photograph) 
Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 24. 

Cade, Cathy, "Commitment." (photograph) Vol. 12, No. 3, 

Cade, Cathy. "Jeri and Judie." (photograph) Vol. 11, No. 3, 

Cade, Cathy. "Jeri, 1982." (photograph) Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 25. 

Cade, Cathy. "Jill, 1982." (photograph) Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 23. 

Cade, Cathy. "Jill, 1982." (photograph) Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 25. 

Cade, Cathy. "Stella and Ina, 1982." (photograph) Vol. 1 1, No. 
3, P. 22. 

Cade, Cathy. "Willyce, 1981." (photograph) Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 


Calcaterra, Loretta. "Temmie Gilbert." (photograph) Vol. 11, 
No. 1, P. 37. 

Carpenter, Maren. Letter to the Editor. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 41. 

Carroll, Mary. "Mending Heads." Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 30. 

Collins, Dana. "To My Great Aunt Rose," (poem) Vol. 12, No. 3, 
P. 27. 

Conant, Barbara M. "Women and War." Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 16. 

Conant, Barbara. "Men and Birth: A Selective Bibliography." 
Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 25. 

Cote, Joyce. "Our Stories, Ourselves: Lesbian Fiction Building 
Community." Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 29. 

Cowser, Janet. "Ann Brigman was not Afraid." (exhibit review j 
Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 32. 

Cowser, Janet. "Untitled." (photograph) Vol. 12, No. 1, cover. 

Cowser, Janet. "Untitled." (photographs) Vol. 12, No. 1, Pps. 


Cowser, Janet. Artist's Statement. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 25. 

Craig, Shawna. "Dancing." (poem) Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 23. 

Dee, Lynn. "Raggedy Ann." (photograph) Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 15. 

Dee, Lynn. Book Review. "The World of the Deaf: A 
Neurologist's Insights:" Seeing Voices by Oliver Sacks. Vol. 11, 
No. 2, P. 33. 

DeLaurentis, Louise Budde. "Diary Entry 8/9/89." (poem) 
Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 37. 

DelliQuadri, Lyn. "A Framework for Understanding 
Ecofeminism." Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 34. 

Demetrick, Mary Russo. Book Review. Crime Against Nature bv 
Minnie Bruce Pratt. Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 35. 

Eisler, Riane. "America's Number One Safety Problem: 
Violence Against Women." Guest Editorial. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 


Fernandez de Oviedo v Valdez, Gonzola. "Untitled." (artwork) 
Vol. 12, No. 1,P. 4. 

Feuerstein, George. Letter to the Editor. Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 42. 

Fincher, Carole. "The Silence Whispers," (poem) Vol. 12, No. 3, 
P. 31. 

Foothorap, Robert. "Susan Faludi." (photograph) Vol. 12, No. 
1, P. 39. 

Forfreedom, Ann. Letter to the Editor. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 53. 

Gaard, Greta. "The History of Snakes." Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 19. 

Gerber, Barbara W. "In (or Out of) the Mainstream." Vol. 11 

No. 3, P. 6. 

Gerber, Barbara W., Hughes, Helen and Osborne, Nancy 
Seale. "Introduction: Crossing the Mainstream: Lesbian 
Perspectives." Vol. 11, No. 3. P. 4. 


Godfrey, Kathryn. Book Review. Megatrends For Women, by 
Patricia Aburdene and John Naisbitt. Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 38. 

Guaman Poma de Ayala, Felipe. "Untitled." (drawing) Vol. 12, 
No. 1, P. 8. 

Hagens, Elizabeth A. "A Geometric Legend." Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 

Halliday, Harriet Hudnut. Letter to the Editor. Vol. 11, No. 3, 
P. 41. 

Halliday, Holly Hudnut. "Dancing Through Fear." Vol. 11, No. 
2, P. 26. 

Harder, Heather Ann, Heckman, Jane Stewart, Kelpsas, Judith 
C. and Hughes, Helen. "Introduction." Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 3. 

Harder, Heather Ann, Rominger, Anna Sue and Bacavis, 
Adrianne. "Partnership Parenting the Native American Way." 
Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 19. 

Harder, Heather Ann. "Are the Public Schools Ready for 
Change?" Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 16. 

Hardy, Catherine. "Breakfast At Harry's Cafe," (poem) Vol. 12, 
No. 3, P. 34. 

Hardy, Catherine. "Love, Hester," (poem) Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 34. 

Haverty, Julie. Letter to the Editor. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 43. 

Heckman, Jane Stewart, Kelpsas, Judith C, Hughes, Helen and 
Harder, Heather Ann. "Introduction." Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 3. 

Heckman, Jane Stewart. "Mother, Maiden, Crone I." Vol. 12, 
No. 2, P. 30. 

Heller, Wendy. "New Territory: Creativity and Brain Injury." 
Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 16. 

Horning, Deborah. "Crossing the Mainstream." Vol. 11, No. 3, 
P. 15. 

Hughes, Helen E. "In Loving Memory: Elaine Garretson, Edith 
Perlmutter and Sonja Weil." Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 40. 

Hughes, Helen E. "Uncommon Lives: Creative Women 
Celebrated at Rockford College." Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 45. 

Hughes, Helen E. Book Review. A Woman's Place by Rex 
Denver Borough. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 48. 

Hughes, Helen E. Editor's Column. "Another Look at the 
Coming of Age." Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 45. 

Hughes, Helen E. Editor's Column. "We're Looking for a Few 
Good Men." Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 46. 

Hughes, Helen E. Editor's Column, "Report From FIMCOP." 
Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 45. 

Hughes, Helen E. Editor's Column. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 54. 

Hughes, Helen, Harder, Heather Ann, Heckman, Jane Stewart, 
and Kelpsas, Judith C. "Introduction." Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 3. 

Hughes, Helen, Osborne, Nancy Seale and Gerber, Barbara W.. 
"Introduction: Crossing the Mainstream: Lesbian 
Perspectives." Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 4. 

Hughes, Helen. "About Our Guest Editor: Judy Panko Reis." 
Vol. 11, No. 2. P. 3. 

Hughes, Helen. "Introduction. Visions and Connections: 1492- 
1992." Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 3. 

Hughes, Helen E. "Introduction." Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 3 

Hughes, Helen. Editor's Column. "Thinking About Disability." 
Vol. 11, No. 2, P 45. 

Hughes, Loring. "Heads of State and Assassin." (gouache, pen 
and ink) Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 18. 

Hughes, Loring. "Self Portrait, 1981." (drawing) Vol. 11, No. 2, 
P. 17. 

Hughes, Loring. "Self Portrait, 1987." (drawing) Vol. 11, No. 2, 
P. 17. 

Hummer, Brooke. "Marca Bristo, Madeline and Sammy." 
(photograph) Vol. 11, No. 2, cover and P. 5. 

Innmon, Arlene. "A Dream - My Father Became the Church." 
(mixed media) Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 25. 

Innmon, Arlene. "After the Baptism." (scratchboard drawing) 
Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 24. 

Innmon, Arlene. "Butterflies" Artist's Statement. Vol. 11, No. 2, 
P. 24. 

Innmon, Arlene. "Doorway Into Green Birth." (pastel) Vol. 11, 
No. 2, P. 24. 

Innmon, Arlene. "Thawing Out the Heart of God." (pastel) Vol. 
11, No. 2, P. 25. 

Innmon, Arlene. "Trapped In My Own Eye." (clay sculpture) 
Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 24. 

Izquierdo, Oscar. "Judy Panko Reis." (photograph) Vol. 11, No. 
1, P. 37. 

Jenkins, Barbara. Letter to the Editor. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 52. 

Jewell, Terri L. Book Review. Women For All Seasons: Poetry and 
Prose About Transitions In Women's Lives ed. by Wanda 
Coleman and Joanne Leedom-Ackerman. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 40. 

JMG. "Changing Images: Lesbian Parenting." Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 

JMK. "Van and Bobtail" (cartoon) Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 18. 

Kelpsas, Judith C. "Transforming the Family: A Partnership 
Vision." Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 13. 

Kelpsas, Judith C, Hughes, Helen, Harder, Heather Ann and 
Heckman, Jane Stewart. "Introduction." Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 3. 

Kidwell, Clara Sue. "The Ways of Two Worlds." Vol. 12, No. 1, 
P. 5. 

Kracke, Waud and Schmaltz, Art. "Men Giving Birth." Vol. 11, 
No. 1, P. 18. 

Krieglstein, Werner. "Family Social Justice: Building the 
Smallest Democracy at the Heart of Society." Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 


Lamp, Sharon and Marks- Walberer, Julie. "How We Won 
Wheels and Rails." Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 11. 

Langston, Donna. "Guilt by Association." (poem) Vol. 11, No. 
3, P. 21. 

Langston, Donna. "Not for a Passing Moment Only." (poem) 
Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 21. 

LaRossa, Ralph. "Fatherhood and Social Change." Vol. 11, No. 

1, P. 5. 

Lawrence, Merlyn Judy. "From Cape Town to Chicago: 
Partnership in Progress." Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 21. 

Leeder, Elaine. "Outsiders on the Inside: Women of Color and 
Working Class Women in Academia." Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 12. 

Leen, Mary. "Morning Worship," (poem) Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 35. 

Lessen, Laurie Suzanne. "Monochromatic Pearl." (poetic 
portrait of Gertrude Stein) Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 40. 

Lessen, Laurie Suzanne. "Points and Slopes." (poetic portrait of 
Virginia Woolf) Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 39. 

Lessen, Laurie Suzanne. "Young and Old, Old and Young." 
(poetic portrait of Anais Nin) Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 38. 

LeVan, Patty Wheat. Book Review. Surviving the Wreckby 
Susan Osborne. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 46. 

Littsay-Rollier, Catherine. "Emblem for the 1994 International 
Year of the Family." (artwork) Vol. 12, No. 2, Pps. 8, 12 and 

Loye, David. "The Crete Festival Story." Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 36. 

Lueders, Martin. "Bob Saunders, Unemployed Laborer." 
(photograph) Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 33. 

Lueders, Martin. "Despatch Rider #19." (photograph) Vol. 11, 
No. 1, P. 33. 

Lueders, Martin. "Fruiterer and Greengrocer, Battersea." 
(photograph) Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 31. 

Lueders, Martin. "Neroy, Battersea Park Boating Attendant." 
(photograph) Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 10. 

Lueders, Martin. "Three Brothers, Portobello Road." 
(photograph) Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 31. 

Lueders, Martin. "Untitled." (photograph) Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 30. 

Lueders, Martin. "Untitled." (photograph) Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 32. 

Lueders, Martin. "Vincenzo." (photograph) Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 

Lueders, Martin. Artist's Statement and Photograph Series. 
Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 30. 

Mannino, Mary Ann. "Winslow Junction: Halfway There." Vol. 
12, No. 3, P. 23. 

Marks- Walberer, Julie and Lamp, Sharon. "How We Won 
Wheels and Rails." Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 11. 

Matchett, Margaret. Book Review. BACKLASH: The Undeclared 
War Against American Women by Susan Faludi. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 

Matteson, Dave. "My Osprey." (poem) Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 31. 

Matteson, David and Schmaltz, Art. "Introduction to Men and 
Birth." Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 4. 

McDonald, Susan McCarthy. "Metaphysics of Childhood," 
(prose poem) Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 36. 

McGinn, Florence. "Nine Months." (poem) Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 36. 

McGinn, Florence. "Spring Planting With My Daughter." 
(poem) Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 36. 

McKusick, Wayne. Letter to the Editor. Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 42. 

McKusick, Wayne. Letter to the Editor. Vol. 12, No. 1. P. 41. 

Meilicke, Kim. "In No One's Arms." (poem) Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 

Mikotowicz, Joyce Malo. "Three Mothers of Spina Bifida 
Children." Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 14. 

Miller, Judy. "The Winter of the Heart," (poem) Vol. 12, No. 3, 
P. 22. 

Miller, Sidney. "Jason's Here." (poem) Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 24. 

Montoya, Malaquais. "Untitled." (artwork) Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 


Nador, Sally J. "The True Self, The False Self, and Male Sex 
Role Expectations." Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 10. 

Neal, Mim. "The Peace Cranes Are Flying." Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 

Osborne, Nancy Seale, Gerber, Barbara, W. and Hughes, 
Helen. "Introduction: Crossing the Mainstream: Lesbian 
Perspectives." Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 4. 

Osborne, Nancy Seale. "Sister Jerome." Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 17. 

Osborne, Nancy Seale. Book Review. The Chant of the Women of 
Magdalena and the Magdelana Poems by SDiane Bogus. Vol. 11, 
No. 3, P. 36. 

Ozaki, Yoji. "Behind Barbed Wire: Destruction of the Japanese- 
American Family." Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 15. 

Page, Karen. Book Review. Fiberarts Design Book Four, edited bv 
Nancy Orban. Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 37. 

Pease, Lesley Daignault. Book Review. Lesbian Lists by Dell 
Richards. Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 34. 

Pfrommer, Margaret. "Adaptive Technology and the Release of 
Human Potential." Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 19. 

Photocraftsmen. "Jane Heckman as a Young Child." Vol. 12, 
No. 2, P. 30. 

Plant, Marian R. "No More Violence." Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 12. 

Raushenbush Marylu. "The Crete Festival Photo Album." 
(photographs) Vol. 12, No. 2, Pps. 39-40. 

Raushenbush, Marylu. "David Loye." (photograph) Vol. 12, 

No. 2, P. 38. 

Raushenbush, Marylu. "Dukakis, Gimbutas and 
Raushenbush." (photograph) Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 36. 

Rauschenbush, Marylu. "Retrospective: Women's Marches 
1962-1992." Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 40. 

Raushenbush, Marylu. "Two Women and A Dream: Riane 
Eisler and Margarita Papandreou." (photograph) Vol. 12, No. 
2, P. 36. 

Reis, Judy Panko and Birnbaum, Barry. "Touching the 
Rainbow: The Art of Josee Andrei." Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 29. 

Reis, Judy Panko. "At Last! An OB/GYN Clinic for Women 
With Special Needs." Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 43. 

Reis, Judy Panko. "Introduction: Swimming Upstream: 
Managing Disabilities." Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 4. 

Reiss, Victoria. Letter to the Editor. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 41. 

Rettberg, Georgeann Eskivich. "Grandmother." (poem) Vol. 12, 
No. 1, P. 29. 


Rettberg, Georgeann Eskivich. "Mornings With Great- 
Grandfather." (poem) Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 34. 

Rich, Cathaleen, B. "Untitled." (artwork) Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 3. 

Robinson, Marge. "What Time Is It?" (poem) Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 

Snow, Claudia. Letter to the Editor. Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 42. 

Stefanakis, Yiannis. "Head of Sarah Cloyce." From the Salem 
Witch Trial Memorial Statue. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 43. 

Stewart, Allegra. "Scholarship in a Time of Crisis: Toward the 
Year 2000." Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 4. 

Rodman, Barbara. "Unfinished Business." Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 16. Stewart, Allegra. Letter to the Editor, Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 41. 

Rominger, Anna Sue, Bacavis, Adrianne and Harder, Heather 
Ann. "Partnership Parenting the Native American Way." Vol. 
12, No. 2, P. 19. 

Rominger, Anna Sue. "Partnership and Domination Models in 
the Law." Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 24. 

Rooney, Theresa. "Bibliography: Women and Disability." Vol. 

11, No. 2, P. 35. 

Saar, Betye. "Black Angus Meets Big Brahma." (artwork) Vol. 

12, No. 1, P. 12. 

Saar, Betye. Letter to the Editor. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 42. 

Samraney, Joanne. "Legacy to Cousin Mary," (poem) Vol. 12, 
No. 3, P. 30. 

Scarlett, Dawn. " Why I Left the Law: I Want to Teach Children 
to Read." Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 27. 

Schmaltz, Art and Kracke, Waud. "Men Giving Birth." Vol. 11, 
No. 1, P. 18. 

Schmaltz, Art and Matteson, David. "Introduction to Men and 
Birth." Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 4. 

Schmaltz, Art. "Ancestral Figure." (steel sculpture) Photograph 
by Richard Burd. Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 27. 

Schmaltz, Art. "Dream Flight." (wood sculpture) Photograph 
by Richard Burd. Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 28. 

Schmaltz, Art. "Goddess Sculptures." (metal sculptures) 
Photographs by Richard Burd. Vol. 11, No. 1. P. 27. 

Schmaltz, Art. "Incubation" (wood sculpture) Photograph by 
Richard Burd. Vol. 11, No. 1, cover. 

Schmaltz, Art. "Male Circumcision." Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 21. 

Schmaltz, Art. "Mother Earth EI: Artist's Statement." Vol. 11, 
No. 1, P. 26. 

Schmaltz, Art. "Mother Earth." (steel sculpture) Photograph by 
Richard Burd. Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 28. 

Schranz, Paul. "Martin Lueders: The Ethics of Street 
Photography." Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 29. 

Schreiber, Gloria Hess. "Staying m Step." Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 22. 

Schwartz, Katherine. "Joanne Zimmerman." (photograph) Vol. 
11, No. 3, P. 41. 

Schweppe, Pamela Smith. "Daddy's Little Girls." Vol. 12, No. 
2, P. 42. 

Searle, Edward. "The Meaning of Meat." Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 12. 

Seidner, Tom. "In the Men's House." (poem) Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 

Shapiro, Shari Kromer. "Photostories." Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 26. 

Siegel, Alan B. "Pregnant Dreams: The Secret Life of the 
Expectant Father." Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 12. 

Swartwout, Susan. "Winslow Homer's Watching the 
Breakers." (poem) Vol. 11. No. 3, P. 37. 

Terry, E. Airman. "Werner and Maryann Krieglstein." 
(photograph) Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 4. 

Thorner, Carol. "I Can Be Angry and Feminine." (photograph) 
Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 28. 

Thorner, Carol. "I Embrace the Future." (photograph) Vol. 12, 
No. 2, P. 29. 

Thorner, Carol. Artist's Statement. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 28. 

Ticho, Betty J. Letter to the Editor. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 42. 

Tims, Machteld. "Untitled." (artwork) Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 19. 

Van Hecke, Madeleine. "Bull Dancing: An Interview on Crete, 
2500 B.C." (poem) Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 41. 

Weinhold, Janae B. "Violence in the Family: Learning What 
You Live." Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 9. 

Williams, Patricia. "How Reading Maya Angelou Changed My 
Life." Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 28. 

Witlock, Marykay Peter. Artist's Statement and Pencil 
Drawings. Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 28. 

Woodson, Rose Marie. "Jo's Bar," (poem) Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 27. 

Yount, Lisa. "To His Bones, In the House Shrine." (poem) Vol. 
12, No. 1, P. 37. 


"About Our Guest Editor" by Helen Hughes. Vol. 11, No.2, P. 

"About our Guest Editors: Art Schmaltz and David Matteson." 
Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 3. 

"Acts of Creativity, Acts of Love: Mothering With Disabilities" 
by Anne Glaser Brentan. Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 5. 

"Adaptive Technology and the Release of Human Potential" 
by Margaret C. Pfrommer. Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 19. 

"After the Baptism" (scratchboard drawing) by Arlene 
Innmon. Vol. 1 1, No. 2, P. 24. 

"America's Number One Safety Problem: Violence Against 
Women." Guest Editorial by Riane Eisler. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 45. 

"Ancestral Figure" (steel sculpture) by Art Schmaltz 
(photograph by Richard Burd). Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 27. 

"Ann, 1981" (photograph) by Cathy Cade. Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 22. 

"Ann Brigman was not Afraid," exhibit review by Janet 
Cowser. Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 32. 

"Are the Public Schools Ready for Change?" by Heather Ann 
Harder. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 16. 


"At Last! An OB/GYN Clinic for Women With Special Needs" 
by Judy Panko Reis. Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 43. 

"Ballet Slippers with Pearls and Tickets" (photograph) by Lynn 
Dee. Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 26. 

"Behind Barbed Wire: Destruction of the Japanese-American 
Family During World War H" by Yoji Ozaki. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 

"Bibliography: Women and Disability" by Theresa Rooney. 
Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 35. 

"Black Angus Meets Big Brahma" (artwork) by Betye Saar. Vol. 
12, No. 1, P. 12. 

"Bob Saunders, Unemployed Laborer" (photograph) by Martin 
Lueders.Vol. 11, No. 1,P.33. 

"Bobbi, Ann, Loren, 1982" (photograph) by Cathy Cade. Vol. 

11, No. 3, P. 24. 

"Breakfast at Harry's Cafe," (poem) by Catherine Hardy. Vol. 

12, No. 3, P. 34. 

"Bull Dancing: An Interview on Crete, 2500 B.C." (poem) by 
Madeleine Van Hecke. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 41. 

"Butterflies," Artist's Statement by Arlene Innmon. Vol. 11, 
No. 2, P. 24. 

"Cathy Cade, 1981" (self-portrait photograph) Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 

"Changing Images: Lesbian Parenting" by JMG. Vol. 11, No. 3, 
P. 9. 

"Commitment," (photograph) by Cathy Cade, Vol. 12, No. 3, 

"The Crete Festival Photo Album" (photographs) by Marylu 
Raushenbush. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 39. 

"The Crete Festival Story" by David Loye. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 36. 

"Crossing the Mainstream" by Deborah Horning. Vol. 11, No. 
3, P. 15. 

"Daddy's Little Girls" by Pamela Smith Schweppe. Vol. 12, No. 
2, P. 42. 

"Dancing Through Fear" by Holly Hudnut Halliday. Vol. 11, 
No. 2, P. 26. 

"Dancing" (poem) by Shawna Craig. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 23. 

"David Loye" (photograph) by Marylu Raushenbush. Vol. 12, 
No. 2, P. 38. 

"Despatch Rider #19" (photograph) by Martin Lueders. Vol. 
11, No. 1, P. 33. 

"Diary Entry 8/9/89" (poem) by Louise Budde DeLaurentis. 
Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 37. 

"The Difference Between Popular and Unpopular 
Photography" (photographs) by Jay Boersma. Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 

"Doorway Into Green Birth" (pastel) by Arlene Innmon. Vol. 
11, No. 2, P. 24. 

"Drawing A Child," (poem) by Carol Barrett. Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 

"Drawing A Chuch," (poem) by Carol Barrett. Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 

"Dream Flight" (wood sculpture) by Art Schmaltz (photograph 
by Richard Burd). Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 28. 

"A Dream - My Father Became the Church" (mixed media) by 
Arlene Inmon. Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 25. 

"Dukakis, Gimbutas, and Raushenbush" (photograph) by 
Marylu Raushenbush. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 36. 

"Emblem for the 1994 International Year of the Family" by 
Catherine Littsay-Rollier. Vol. 12, No. 2, cover, Pps. 8, 12. 

"Family Social Justice: Building the Smallest Democracy at the 
Heart of Society" by Werner Krieglstein. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 4 

"Fatherhood and Social Change" by Ralph LaRossa. Vol. 11, 

No. 1,P.5. 

"A Framework for Understanding Ecofeminism" by Lyn 
Delliquadri. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 34. 

"From Cape Town to Chicago: Partnership in Progress" bv 
Merlyn Judy Lawrence. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 21. 

"Fruiterer and Greengrocer, Battersea" (photograph) by Martin 
Lueders. Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 31. 

"A Geometric Legend" by Elizabeth A. Hagens. Vol. 12, No. 3, 
P. 11. 

"Goddess Sculptures" (photographs by Richard Burd) by Art, No. 1, P. 27. 

"Grandmother" (poem) by Georgeann Eskivich Rettberg. Vol. 
12, No. 1, P. 29. 

"Guilt by Association" (poem) by Donna Langston. Vol. 11, 
No. 3, P. 21. 

"Head of Sarah Cloyce" from the Salem Witch Trial Memorial 
Statue by Yiannis Stefanakis. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 43. 

"Heads of State and Assassin" (gouache, pen and ink) bv 
Loring Hughes. Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 18. 

"Helicopters" (Poem) by Glenda Bailey-Mershon. Vol. 11, No. 
2, P. 32. 

"The History of Snakes" by Greta Gaard. Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 19. 

"How Reading Maya Angelou Changed My Life" by Patricia 
Williams. Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 28. 

"How We Won Wheels and Rails" by Sharon Lamp and Julie 
Marks- Walberer. Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 11. 

"I Can Be Angry and Feminine" (photograph) by Carol 
Thorner. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 28. 

"I Embrace the Future" (photograph) by Carol Thorner. Vol. 
12, No. 2, P. 29. 

"In (or Out of) the Mainstream" bv Barbara W. Gerber. Vol. 11, 
No. 3, P. 6. 

"In Loving Memory: Elaine Garretson, Edith Perlmutter, Sonja 
Weil" by Helen Hughes. Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 40. 

"In No One's Arms" (poem) bv Kim Meilicke. Vol. 12, \"o. 1, P. 


"In the Men's House" (poem) by Tom Seidner. Vol. 11, No. 1, 
P. 36. 

"Incubation" (wood sculpture) by Art Schmaltz (photograph 
by Richard Burd) Vol. 11, No. 1, cover. 


"Introduction to Men and Birth" by Art Schmaltz and David 
Matteson. Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 4. 

"Introduction" by Heather Ann Harder, Jane Stewart 
Heckman, Judith C. Kelpsas, Lisa Cacari-Stone and Helen 
Hughes. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 3. 

"Introduction: Swimming Upstream: Managing Disabilities" 
by Judy Panko Reis. Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 4. 

Introduction: "Crossing the Mainstream: Lesbian Perspectives" 
by Helen Hughes, Nancy Seale Osborne and Barbara W. 
Gerber. Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 4. 

Introduction: "Visions and Connections: 1492-1992" by Helen 
Hughes. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 3. 

Introduction, by Helen Hughes. Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 3. 

"Jane Heckman as a Young Child" (photograph) 
Photocraftsmen. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 30. 

"Janet Cowser, In Nature, Herself" commentary by Jay 
Boersma. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 24. 

"Jason's Here" (poem) by Sidney Miller. Vol. 11, No. 1. P. 24. 

"Jeri and Judie" (photograph) by Cathy Cade. Vol. 11, No. 3, 

"Jeri, 1982" (photograph) by Cathy Cade. Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 25. 

"Jill, 1982" (photograph) by Cathy Cade. Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 23. 

"Jill, 1982" (photograph) by Cathy Cade. Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 25. 

"Joanne Zimmerman" (photograph) by Katherine Schwartz. 
Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 41. 

"Jo's Bar," (poem) by Rose Marie Woodson. Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 


"Judy Panko Reis" (photograph) by Oscar Izquierdo. Vol. 11, 
No. 1, P. 37. 

"Legacy To Cousin Mary," (poem) by Joanne Samraney. Vol. 
12, No. 3, P. 30. 

"Love, Hester," (poem) by Catherine Hardy. Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 

"Male Circumcision" by Art Schmaltz. Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 21. 

"The Many Faces of Feminist Psychology" (graphic artwork) 
from the program for the 14th National Conference of the 
Association for Women in Psychology, Newport, Rhode 
Island, 1989. Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 4. 

"Marca Bristo, Madeline and Sammy" (photograph) by Brooke 
Hummer. Vol. 11, No. 2, cover and P. 5. 

"Martin Lueders: The Ethics of Street Photography" by Paul 
Schranz. Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 29. 

"The Meaning of Meat" by Edward Searle. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 12. 

"Men and Birth: A Selective Bibliography" by Barbara Conant. 
Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 25. 

"Men Giving Birth" by Art Schmaltz and Waud Kracke. Vol. 
11, No. 1, P. 18. 

"Mending Heads" by Mary Carroll. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 30. 

"Metaphysics of Childhood," (prose poem) by Susan McCarthy 
McDonald. Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 36. 

"Monochromatic Pearl" (poetic portrait of Gertrude Stein) by 
Laurie Suzanne Lessen. Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 40. 

"Mornings With Great-Grandfather" (poem) by Georgeann 
Eskivich Rettberg. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 34. 

"Morning Worship," (poem) by mary Leen. vol. 12, No. 3, P. 35. 

"Mother Earth m," Artist's Statement by Art Schmaltz. Vol. 11, 
No. 1, P. 26. 

"Mother Earth" (steel sculpture) by Art Schmaltz (photograph 
by Richard Burd). Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 28. 

"Mother, Maiden, Crone I" by Jane Stewart Heckman. Vol. 12, 
No. 2, P. 30. 

"Mother, Maiden, Crone II: Alma Mia (My Soul)" by Lisa 
Cacari-Stone. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 32. 

"Mushroom Children," (poem) by Kathleen de Azevedo. vol. 
12, no. 3, P. 31. 

"My Osprey" (Poem) by Dave Matteson. Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 31. 

"Neroy, Battersea Park Boating Attendant" (photograph) by 
Martin Lueders. Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 10. 

"New Territory: Creativity and Brain Injury" by Wendy Heller. 
Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 16. 

"Nine Months" (poem) by Florence McGinn. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 

"No More Violence" by Marian R. Plant. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 12. 

"Not for a Passing Moment Only" (poem) by Donna Langston. 
Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 21. 

"Our Stories, Ourselves: Lesbian Fiction Building 
Community." by Joyce Cote. Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 29. 

"Outsiders on the Inside: Women of Color and Working Class 
Women in Academia" by Elaine Leeder. Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 12. 

"Partnership and Domination Models in the Law" by Anna 
Sue Rominger. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 24. 

"Partnership Parenting the Native American Way" by 
Adrianne Bacavis, Heather Ann Harder and Anna Sue 
Rominger. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 19. 

"The Peace Cranes Are Flying" by Mim Neal. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 

"Photostories" by Sherry Kromer Shapiro. Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 26. 

"Points and Slopes" (poetic portrait of Virginia Woolf) by 
Laurie Suzanne Lessen. Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 39. 

"Pregnant Dreams: The Secret Life of the Expectant Father" by 
Alan B. Siegel. Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 12. 

"Raggedy Ann" (photograph) by Lynn Dee. Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 

"Retrospective: Women's Marches 1962-1992," by Marylu 
Rauschenbush. Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 40. 

"Scholarship in a Time of Crisis: Toward the Year 2000," by 
Allegra Stewart. Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 4. 

"Self Portrait, 1981" (drawing) by Loring Hughes. Vol. 11, No. 
2, P. 17. 

"Self Portrait, 1987" (drawing) by Loring Hughes. Vol. 11, No. 
2, P. 17. 


"The Silence Whispers," (poem) by Carole Fincher. Vol. 12, No. 
3, P. 31. 

"Sister Jerome" by Nancy Seale Osborne. Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 17. 

"Sister of the Night" (painting) by Josee Andrei. Vol. 11, No. 2, 
P. 30. 

"Spring Planting With My Daughter" (poem) by Florence 
McGinn. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 36. 

"Staying in Step" by Gloria Hess Schreiber. Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 

"Stella and Ina, 1982" (photograph) by Cathy Cade. Vol. 11, 
No. 3, P. 22. 

"Susan Faludi" (photograph) by Robert Foothorap. Vol. 12, No. 
1, P. 39. 

"Temmie Gilbert" (photograph) by Loretta Calca terra. Vol. 11, 
No. 1, P. 37. 

"Thawing Out the Heart of God" (pastel) by Arlene Innmon. 
Vol. 11, No. 2, P.25. 

"Three Brothers, Portobello Road" (photograph) by Martin 
Lueders. Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 31. 

"Three Mothers of Spina Bifida Children" by Joyce Malo 
Mikotowicz. Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 14. 

"To His Bones, In the House Shrine" (poem) by Lisa Yount. 
Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 37. 

"To My Great Aunt Rose," (poem) by Dana Collins. Vol. 12, No. 
3, P. 27. 

"Touching the Rainbow: The Art of Josee Andrei" by Barry 
Bimbaum and Judy Panko Reis. Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 29. 

"Transforming the Family: A Partnership Vision" by Judith C. 
Kelpsas. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 13. 

"Trapped In My Own Eye" (clay sculpture) by Arlene Innmon. 
Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 24. 

"The True Self, The False Self, and Male Sex Role Expectations" 
by Sally J. Nador. Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 10. 

"Two Women and A Dream: Riane Eisler and Margarita 
Papandreou" (photograph) by Marylu Raushenbush. Vol. 12, 
No. 2, P. 36. 

"Uncommon Lives: Creative Women Celebrated at Rockford 
College" by Helen Hughes. Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 45. 

"Unfinished Business," by Barbara Rodman, vol. 12, No. 3, P. 

"Untitled" (artwork) by Cathaleen B. Rich. Vol. 12, No. 2. P. 3. 

"Untitled" (artwork) by Gonzola Fernandez de Oviedo y 
Valdez. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 4. 

"Untitled" (artwork) by Machteld Tims. Vol. 12, No. 2. P. 19. 

"Untitled" (artwork) by Malaquais Montoya. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 

"Untitled" (drawing) by Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala. Vol. 
12, No. 1, P. 8. 

"Untitled" (drawing) by Leslie Burgess. Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 11. 

"Untitled" (photograph) by Janet Cowser. Vol. 12, No. 1, cover. 

"Untitled" (photograph) by Martin Lueders. Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 

"Untitled" (photograph) by Martin Lueders. Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 

"Untitled" (photographs) by Janet Cowser. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 25 
through 28. 

"Van & Bobtail" (cartoon) by JMK. Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 18. 

"Vincenzo" (photograph) by Martin Lueders. Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 

"Violence in the Family: Learning What You Live" by Janae B. 
Weinhold. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 9. 

"Werner and Maryann Krieglstein" (photograph) by E. Altman 
Terry. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 4. 

"What Time Is It?" (poem) by Marge Robinson. Vol. 11, No. 1, 
P. 20. 

"Why I Left the Law: I Want to Teach Children to Read" by 
Dawn Scarlett. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 27. 

"Willyce, 1981" (photograph) by Cathy Cade. Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 

"Winslow Homer's Watching The Breakers" (poem) by Susan 
Swartwout. Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 37. 

"Winslow Junction: Halfway There," by Mary Ann Mannino. 
Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 23. 

"The Winter of the Heart" (poem) by Judy Miller. Vol. 12, No. 
3, P. 22. 

"Women and War" by Barbara M. Conant. Vol 12, No. 1, P. 16. 

"A Writer, Eppis" (poem) by Barbara Foster. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 

"Young and Old, Old and Young" (poetic portrait of Anais 
Nin) by Laurie Suzanne Lessen. Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 38. 

Artist's Statement and Photograph Series by Martin Lueders. 
Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 30. 

Artist's Statement by Carol Thorner. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 28. 

Artist's Statement by Janet Cowser. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 25. 

Artist's Statement and Pencil Drawings, by Marikav Peter 
Witlock. Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 28. 

Book Review: "A Very Personal Review:" Bi Any Other Name: 
Bisexual People Speak Out, edited by Loraine Hutchins and Lani 
Kaahumanu, reviewed by Linda Bubon. Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 32. 

Book Review: "The World of the Deaf: A Neurologist's 
Insights" Seeing Voices by Oliver Sacks, reviewed by L\nn Dee. 
Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 33. 

Book Review: A Woman's Place by Rex Denver Borough, 
reviewed by Helen E. Hughes. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 48. 

Book Review: BACKLASH: The Undeclared War Against 
American Women by Susan Faludi, reviewed bv Margaret S. 
Matchert. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 38. 

Book Review: Crime Against Nature by Minnie Bruce Pratt, 
reviewed by Mary Russo Demetiick. Vol 11, No. 3, P. 35. 

Book Review: Lesbian Lists by Dell Richards, reviewed by 
Lesley Daignault Pease. Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 34. 


Book Review: Movement in Black by Pat Parker, reviewed by 
Mary Russo Demetrick. Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 35. 

Book Review: Surviving the Wreck by Susan Osborne, reviewed 
by Parte Wheat LeVan. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 46. 

Book Review: The Chant of the Women ofMagdalena and the 
Magdelena Poems by SDiane Bogus, reviewed by Nancy Seale 
Osborne. Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 36. 

Book Review: Women For All Seasons: Poetry and Prose About 
Transitions In Women's Lives edited by Wanda Coleman and 
Joanne Leedom-Ackerman, reviewed by Terri L. Jewell. Vol. 
12, No. 1, P. 40. 

Book Review: Fiberarts Design Book Four edited by Nancy 
Orban, reviewed by Karen Page. Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 37. 

Book Review: Megatrends For Women, by Patricia Aburdene 
and John Naisbett, reviewed by Kathryn Godfrey. Vol. 12, No. 
3, P. 38. 

Editor's Column "Another Look at the Coming of Age" by 
Helen Hughes. Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 45. 

Editor's Column "Thinking About Disability" by Helen 
Hughes. Vol. 11, No. 2, P. 45. 

Editor's Column "We're Looking for a Few Good Men" by 
Helen Hughes. Vol. 1 1, No. 1 , P. 46. 

Editor's Column by Helen E. Hughes. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 54. 

Editor's Column "Report From FIMCOP," by Helen E. Hughes. 
Vol. 12, No. 3, P. 45. 

Letter to the Editor by Maren Carpenter. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 41. 

Letter to the Editor by George Feuerstein. Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 42. 

Letter to the Editor by Ann Forfreedom. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 53. 

Letter to the Editor by Harriet Hudnut Halliday. Vol. 11, No. 3, 
P. 41. 

Letter to the Editor by Julie Haverty. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 43. 

Letter to the Editor by Barbara Jenkins. Vol. 12, No. 2, P. 52. 

Letter to the Editor by Wayne McKusick. Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 42. 

Letter to the Editor by Wayne McKusick. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 41. 

Letter to the Editor by Victoria Reiss. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 41. 

Letter to the Editor by Betye Saar. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 42. 

Letter to the Editor by Claudia Snow. Vol. 11, No. 1, P. 42. 

Letter to the Editor by Allegra Stewart. Vol. 11, No. 3, P. 41. 

Letter to the Editor by Betty J. Ticho. Vol. 12, No. 1, P. 42. 



The editors, staff and publishers of The Creative Woman proudly introduce her 
new publisher and editor: 

Tapp Group 

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Arlington Heights, IL 60004 

Phone; 708/255-1232 

Fax; 708/255-1243 

Dear Valued Reader of The Creative Woman: 

TAPP Group is a group of dedicated publishing professionals with one goal in mind . . . the continued 
editorial excellence of The Creative Woman. You may see some subtle changes through the issues, a 
splash of color here and there, new design elements, etc. However, the content and theme of the maga- 
zine will remain the same. 

The Creative Woman will be published four times a year: March, June, September and December, with 
annual subscription rate of $16.00 per year, $5.00 for single issues. 

As a dedicated reader, you can look foward to the following editorial features in 1993: 

Spring Issue - The Mature Woman 
Summer Issue - Women in Chemistry 
Autumn Issue - The Inventive Female 
Winter Issue - Filmmakers 

We hope you continue to look foward to receiving and reading The Creative Woman. We welcome your 
comments and contributions, your subscriptions and renewals. 

Have a wonderful holiday season and a happy new year . . . don't forget . . . 1993 is the International 
Year of The Woman. 


Margaret A. Choudhury 



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